Obsession
by Flagg1991
Summary: Lincoln develops a crush on Ms. DiMartino, a substitute teacher whose past is out for revenge. Will they find love...or will dark forces find them? Lincoln x Ms. DiMartino. Cover by Raganoxer.
1. Crush

_**Now I can't stand to see you looking at another man**_

_**I would punch your lights out then you'll see and understand**_

_**I love you**_

_**But I'll kill you if you leave me**_

**\- Ray Sawyer (**_**I'll Kill You, **_**1984)**

There were many things in this life that Lincoln Loud couldn't understand, and how his sister Lana could eat so much was one of them.

It was a rainy Tuesday morning in the middle of November and Lincoln had been up since six getting his younger siblings ready for school, a task that required a lot more time and effort than you might think. When Lori was still at home, the good ship Loud ran as smooth as hot butter on breakfast toast, and she made it look _easy_. Pfft, he thought, I can totally do her job. Babysitting...well, that was a different story, but being the "oldest"? Piece of cake. When she left for college, her duties passed to Leni, but given her, uh, Leniness, that didn't work out very well. The baton, then, unofficially went to Luna, but Luna was busy with Sam, music, and working a part time job waiting tables at the truck stop. Luan had Funny Business, INC, to worry about, and Lynn had her head shoved so far up her sportsball team's ass that she was about as useful as a golf club in a nuclear war.

That was how Lincoln, far down the line of succession, wound up with the title of Oldest at fourteen.

Now, that didn't mean much in regards to his older sisters still at home (Luna, Leni, and Lori were all at college). He had no authority over Lynn and Luan and he never acted like he did - they'd team up and kick his ass if he tried. He _did_, however, have say over the younger ones. Kind of. His position came with a whole lot of work and not very much power. He got Lily, Lisa, Lana, Lola, and Lucy up in the morning, made sure they had breakfast and everything they needed for the day, mediated disputes, ensured that Lana bathed regularly (regularly being once a week, maybe twice if she got _really _dirty), fixed after school snacks, and got dinner started if Mom and Dad were late getting home. There wasn't much manual labor, but there _was _tons of pressure.

He liked it, though, because it gave him a sense of purpose. Almost fifteen, Lincoln had always felt like a man adrift. Each one of his sisters was firmly entrenched in an identity (Lola the beauty queen, Lucy the brainy goth), but he was...well, nothing. He played video games, read comic books, and hung out with his friends, but those were activities _not _traits. He sensed something missing in himself, some cohesive element to bring all the facets of his personality together, like a leavening agent in bread, but try as he might, he just couldn't find it. He sucked at drawing, his writing stank, he wasn't great at any one thing (jack of all trades, master of none, the saying went). He strategized a lot, but his plans had this habit of blowing up in his face.

In a way, he had no identity, and that bothered him. Playing den master to his younger siblings filled that void inside of him. Why, he didn't know. Was it the nurturing aspect? The guiding, teaching, and protecting? If so, maybe he'd make a good teacher. Or a social worker. Was it finally having a measure of control in a family where he'd always been powerless? His sisters never set out to dominate him, but when you're the only boy in a pack of ten girls, it's bound to happen. Take shampoo for instance. Mom and Dad bought one bottle for all the kids to use. He wanted a more masculine scent, but being the sole male, he was consistently outvoted. He always smelled fab-u-lous, though.

None of those explanations felt right. He didn't know why he enjoyed being the Oldest, and sometimes it niggled the back of his mind. For the most part, however, he just went with it.

On that November morning, he rose at six like always, caught a shower, then dressed in jeans and a red long sleeve shirt with Ace Savvy on the front. Today, Lola was staying after school for cheerleading practice, Lucy had Young Mortician's Club, and Lisa was holding a seminar at the Museum of Natural History on evolution. Mom _should _be out of work early enough to pick them all up, but there was a chance she wouldn't be, and it would fall to him. If he could drive, well, there you go, problem solved, but, hey, fourteen's too young, which meant he'd have to hoof it. The museum and elementary school were miles apart, and nothing's more nerve wracking than trudging through the damp November chill with bellyaching girls. If he had to, he'd grab Lisa first, since she complained the least of the four. He'd swing by the elementary school, get Lola, Lana, and Lucy, then head home. If he timed it just right (and hurried), they could ride Bus 12 from the school to the end of Franklin.

Lisa was kinda slow - she had those stubby little seven-year-old legs - so that probably wouldn't happen.

He was getting ahead of himself, though. Getting to his feet, he grabbed his backpack from the back of the chair and shoved his books in. He was up late last night doing homework and after a while his mind started slipping, now he was afraid to even look at it. He maintained average grades, so one F wouldn't kill him, but it sure wouldn't help him either.

Average. Heh. That described him perfectly. Not great, not terrible, just...there, entirely unremarkable. Some people stand out for good reasons - excellence in sports or academics - and others stand out for not-so-good reasons (like gassing Jews or flying planes into buildings), but not Lincoln. He was completely mid-tier, the kind of bland, monotonous face you pass over in a crowd and don't think twice about...if you even think once. Basic, that was a good word. So basic, in fact, that he might as well have been invisible.

Sometimes he dwelled and let that depress him, other times, he glass-half-full'd it. There's nothing wrong with being median (at best). He'd marry, father children, work a job, and die, just like everyone else. Popularity (infamy too, for that matter) doesn't mean jackshit in the end. You still die and go in a box. Your box might be bigger and shinier, but are you around to enjoy?

Nope. Unless you're so egotistical that you wind up hanging out around your grave in ghost form and bragging on how nice your casket is. In which case...uh, you do you.

Being average wasn't terrible, but he'd spent his whole life surrounded by a bevy of talented siblings. Lori and Lily weren't talented, but their station as numerical oldest and youngest, respectively, set them apart. What did he have? Nada. In fact, he was the absolute middle of the Loud children, lost in the fray, no special skills, no -

Dude, stop, you're self-pitying again.

Oh, shit, I am?

Right.

He scanned the desk, making sure he had everything, then zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. The others were starting to come out of their rooms now, Lynn and Luan stood in front of the bathroom door, waiting for someone (probably Lisa...for whatever reason, she refused to poop at any other time than the morning), and Lucy paced back and forth in a circle in the most obvious I-gotta-go dance ever.

Downstairs, he dropped his bag next to the stove, grabbed a pan out of the cabinet, and dug in the fridge for a carton of eggs. Next, he took a bowl from the drying rack, cracked a half dozen in, then whisked them together. In a family as big as his, if you wanted eggs, you got scrambled. All food had to stretch as far as possible. Soup, stew, pasta, and chili were pretty much the only things on the menu, except for Dad's signature creations. He didn't get creative in the kitchen much since he started working longer hours at the office, but when he did…

A PTSD flashback of last time came over him. Baked lima beans, Spam and Vienna sausage. If he strained hard enough, the taste still echoed in his mouth like the dying screams of a platoon through the fevered mind of a combat vet.

Shiver.

When the eggs were done, he got a stack of plates and heaped some onto each. Lynn came in, grabbed a sports bar from the pantry, and went out again. "See ya, Stinkcoln."

"Later, Ponytail."

She hated being called that.

"Screw you, dork."

He smirked to himself. As far as anyone knew, Lynn was straight as an arrow - she even dated a guy named Francisco for a little while - but she _hated _any reference to her gender. Just calling her _girl _was enough to piss her off. He thought it was because she equated femininity with weakness, though maybe it was something else. He liked to think he was adept at psychoanalyzing his sisters but, truth be told, he was mediocre in that too. One time, Lucy was moping around the house and every time he asked her if she was okay, she said _yes _in the most miserable tone she could muster. Knowing her vast intelligence, sensitive nature, and emotional fragility, he concluded that she was having an existential crisis. Instead, she was on her period.

In the dining room, Lola, Lana, Lisa, and Lucy waited at the table. Lincoln sat a plate in front of each one of them, then sat at the head. Luan and Lynn were already gone and Mom dropped Lily at daycare before going to work, so they were alone.

Setting his phone on the table, Lincoln scrolled through Facebook while he ate. Someone posted a picture of Donald Trump walking next to Jesus. Flowery cursive writing proclaimed: _Together, they will being peace_.

Lincoln unfriended them.

Next, he came across a fan video in the Ace Savvy's Secret Society group titled _10 Hidden Clues That Ace is Lowkey Gay_. The comments section was a shitshow of political warfare. SJW this, homophobe that. He just wanted to look at art and read fan fiction, why did everyone have to shove politics in it? The Ace writers on were really bad about that. You'd be reading a cool, action packed story when BAM, the bad guys are Christian conservatives or left-wing hipsters. Kinda -

"Linc?"

Lana favored him with big, shimmering puppy dog eyes. Nine and tall for her age, Lana wore jeans and a green and black flannel shirt over a solid gray T-shirt, her blonde hair hidden under a red baseball cap. Lola sat next to her in a sleeveless pink dress with white stripes. Once upon a time, the twins were identical, and if they didn't wear their personalities on their sleeves, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart. Now, however, they were beginning to develop along different trajectories, Lana tall and lanky, Lola short and delicate.

Lincoln's brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"Can I have some more?" she asked.

Oh. Shoulda known. Lana was one of those enviable types who can eat and eat without gaining a pound, and brother, did she eat. Her portion was always slightly larger than everyone else's, and all the chips, pretzels, and cookies in the pantry were there for her benefit. Well, everyone else's too, since she'd bellyache and drive everyone crazy if she didn't have something to nibble on.

"There _is _no more."

Her heartbreak was visible. "Oh," she said and hung her head. She made the grave mistake of darting her eyes to him then quickly away, as though assessing his reaction.

She was playing him.

Even so, he picked up his plate. "Here, you can have half of mine."

Her face lit up. "Thanks, Linc!"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. He leaned over and pushed half of his eggs onto her plate with his fork, then went back to scrolling. Oh, cool, they're making a Call of Honor movie. Hope it's better than the Steal That Car movie. That one sucked. The hype was real, then when it came out, everyone panned it. His online friends hated it, but they were all fandom geeks, and there's no pickier creature on earth than a fandom geek. Then he saw it, and yep, it stank. Too bad, it -

"Linc?"

Lincoln's thumb froze over the screen. He looked up, and Lana flashed a sheepish smile. "I'm still hungry."

"You're such a pig," Lola said exasperatedly.

"I'm growing," Lana corrected.

"You're gluttonous," Lucy deadpanned. "You need to practice self-restraint."

Eleven and almost as tall as Lana, her gaunt frame clad in a black dress and her black hair held back in a joyless ponytail, Lucy was one to talk: She routinely read all night, then dragged through the next day. _It was such a good book I couldn't pull away_. Each one of Lincoln's sisters, he long ago noticed, fell neatly into a role. Lucy was the introvert. She enjoyed privacy, being alone, and spending time by herself. She devoured horror paperbacks with lurid covers like a pill head devours xanax bars and regurgitated them as original poems that showed promise, but not discipline. That came with age and refinement. One day she might be good, but today was not that day, if her latest effort was any indication.

_Vampires, all over the place _

_In the tap water, in the garage, even in space_

_They're sucking blood from unwary necks_

_Like my alcoholic Uncle Bill drinks bottles of Becks_

That last line came from him, by the way. She asked him for help and he spent ten minutes trying to come up with something. _You wrote yourself into a corner. Why not start over?_

_This is my last piece of college ruled notebook paper. I can't fail. _

"Your face is gluttonous," Lana shot back. Chances were, she didn't even know what that word meant. She had all the mechanical aptitude in the world, but absolutely was _not _a scholar.

Lucy responded by lifting her hands, wiggling her fingers, and chanting a low, "Ahhhnahhhnaaah."

"Lincoln!" Lana screeched. "Lucy's putting a curse on me!'

Across the table, the veins in Lisa's forehead throbbed and she visibly fought to keep from interjecting. No matter how many times she told Lana curses weren't real, Lana refused to believe her. That was because one time Lucy "hexed" her and by sheer coincidence, she fell down the stairs on her own untied shoelaces.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Lincoln said, "Lucy, stop cursing Lana. Lana, if you're still hungry, go make yourself a bowl of cereal."

Lucy let her hands drop to the table, and Lana pushed back, the legs of her chair scraping the floor.

Now where was I?

Oh, right, Call of Honor. That'd make a great movie if they do it right. Who was attached to direct? He clicked the link, scanned the page, and deflated when he saw it.

K. Sullivan.

Aw, man, that's the dumbass who directed _Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy: Into the Sea_. AKA the movie that finally killed Spongebob after thirty seasons.

In his periphery, Lana came back in and took her seat. Lola made a sound of disgust. "Really, Lana?"

Lincoln glanced up, and his lips turned down in a stern frown. "I said a bowl of cereal."

"This is a bowl," Lana said of the big metal serving bowl in front of her. It was filled to the very top with three different kinds of cereal.

"Did you use _all _the cereal?" Lincoln asked soberly. Now he was getting annoyed.

She shrugged one shoulder and took a bite.

"I bet she used up all the milk too," Lola said bitterly.

Lana shook her head. "Nu-uh," she said around a mouthful of food, "there's some left."

In this case, 'some' was 'a tiny drop in the very bottom.' Lincoln held the jug up, shook it, and let out a sigh. Mom was gonna be pissed, and he'd be the one she went after. _Why did you let her use all the milk, Lincoln? You're supposed to be the responsible one. _

He tossed it into the trash on his way out of the kitchen. Lucy, Lola, and Lisa were in the gloomy living room pulling on jackets and backpacks. Lana sat at the table, shoveling spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth. "Come on," Lincoln said, "we gotta go."

"One minute."

At the front window, he pulled back the curtain and scanned the wet street. The trees lining the sidewalk burned with dull autumnal color and the houses huddled against the bleak morning. Rain fell from the ashen sky in a thin drizzle. He let the curtain fall closed, slipped into his jacket, and pulled a knit cap from the pocket. It was orange with a fluffy white pom on top. Leni, currently in her second year at the Chicago School of Design, made it for his birthday. _It's orange and white, just like you. _Obviously she didn't mean he was literally orange (who was he, Donald Trump?), but he wore orange because it was his favorite color. It was a nice cap, but the pom was a little much. He wore it everyday, though. Not because his beloved sister made it for him, but because it was either that go hatless.

Lola, Lucy, and Lisa all stood by the door, Lola texting, Lucy with her hands behind her back, and Lisa impatiently tapping her foot. "Come on!" he called.

"Coming!"

A moment later, Lana came out of the dining room with something in her hand. She started to unwrap it, and Lincoln narrowed her eyes. "What's that?"

"What's what?" she asked innocently.

"That. That...thing in your…" he sucked a shocked breath. "Is that one of Lynn's sports bars? She's gonna flip."

Lana shrugged one shoulder and crammed it into her mouth. "Uhruh."

He thought she said _oh well_.

Whatever. Lynn wasn't like Mom. Mom would go after him for Lana, Lynn would go after Lana for Lana.

Shaking his head, he opened the door and motioned for his sisters to scram. Lisa went first, followed by Lucy, then Lola, then Lana, who tailed crumbs behind. Outside, a damp breeze cut through him and he shuddered. He couldn't wait until he had a license. Walking to school in the rain and snow would be a thing of the past.

He pulled the door closed behind him, locked it, then zipped his jacket closed and lead his sisters down the steps like a general marshaling his troops. "My legs are cold," Lola whined.

"You should have worn pants," Lincoln said.

"My legs are cold too," Lucy said, "it's like being dead, I like it."

Lola sighed. "Lucy, you're such a ghoul."

A tiny smile touched the corners of Lucy's mouth. "Thanks."

With so many kids on their hands, Mom and Dad were rarely able to give anybody one-on-one time, which lead each Loud child to become something of an attention whore, even Lucy. It worked on the squeaky wheel principle. It gets the grease, you know. Lola sought attention by complaining, and Lucy did it by being exaggeratedly morbid.

"I'm still hungry," Lana said.

"You consumed roughly 1,400 calories," Lisa said with strained patience, "that's far more than even a grown man should take at a single meal. You're fine."

"I'm growing!" Lana cried, as though that trumped everything else.

Royal County Elementary was housed in an archaic two story brick building at the end of Schoolhouse Road, a wooded lane where tall trees formed a tunnel of shadows. Barren branches rattled in the wind like old bones and faded leaves drifted from them in ember showers. A fleet of school buses ideled at the curb and kids spilled off, joining together in a writhing mass and streaming through the main doors. "Have a good day," Lincoln said.

"You too, Lincy," Lola said.

"See ya," Lana said.

"Bye," Lucy.

"You as well," Lisa.

He watched them disappear into the crowd, then hurried on. Rain pelted Lincoln's head and shoulders, and he quickened his step.

The middle school was a half mile farther down, a long, low L-shaped structure with an open breezeway and a horseshoe drive. The front lobby was packed with kids, and the halls were little better. At his locker, he put in his combination, peeled his coat off, and shoved it inside. "Yo, Loud," Chandler McCan greeted as he passed.

"Hey."

Next was Poppa Wheelie, short and chubby with lank brown hair. He walked with the swagger of a teen desperately trying to conceal his insecurities. "Nice hat, Loud," he mocked, "did your sister make it for you?"

"Actually, yes, she did."

Poppa's face sobered. "Oh, dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get personal like that."

"It's cool."

Poppa lingered for a moment, then scurried away.

Grabbing his history book, Lincoln slammed the door just as Clyde came up. "Hey, buddy," he said in that firm, baritone voice. Puberty had affected him greatly. Over the summer, he shot up five inches and grew the makings of a mustache. His muscles were also toned and well-defined. Lincoln, on the other hand, was the same as he'd always been, just a little higher and a touch leaner. Jeez, even his biological development was mediocre.

Sigh.

"Hey," he said, "did you do it?"

Clyde flashed a lipless smile. "Nah," he said and laughed nervously. Last year, a girl named Kylie moved to Royal Woods. Tall and slim with blonde hair and freckles, she was angelic, the kind of girl boys wrote poetry for. Clyde, like every other guy in school, had it bad for her, and had been amping himself up to ask her out since May. Every day, he'd commit...then chicken out and make an excuse.

"My dads needed me to help with the taxes."

Lincoln lifted a brow. "Dude..it's November."

"We like to get an early start," Clyde said defensively.

Riiiight.

Before Lincoln could press further, the bell rang. "See you in math," Clyde said and rushed off.

Lincoln made his way to class, squeezing to get through the throng. Speaking of Kylie, there she was now, talking to Cristina and Paige. She wore a sleeveless pale blue dress with a white collar, socks pulled to her knees, and her hair in slack pigtails. She was cute, no doubt, but Lincoln couldn't say she got his motor racing like she did everyone else's. There was something about girls his age that he didn't entirely like, an indefinable something he could never place. He liked older girls, like Dana and Becky. They were unf. Ronnie Anne's mom too, honestly, and, uh, maybe, kinda sorta...Ms. Johnson.

C'mon, it's not that strange. Women are far better than girls anyway. They're more mature, experienced, and filled out. As hot as Kylie was, she didn't have curves or breasts. Ms. Johnson did.

He reached Room 3C and went inside. Rows of desks faced a chalkboard and narrow windows overlooked the athletic field. He went to his normal spot, sat, and took out his phone for one last FB check. Someone posted a list of reasons K. Sullivan was the worst person to handle Call of Honor, and Lincoln shared it.

Seriously, fuck K. Sullivan.

The other kids drifted in and the bell rang. Mr. Kemper, the esteemed captain of first period history, was missing, his desk empty and cold. Late again, huh? More Facebook time for me.

A friend of his from the Ace Savvy group responded to his link with an impassioned defense of Sullivan, and Lincoln rolled his eyes. Zack was a cool guy and all, but he had this thing where he always went against the majority. If everyone liked something, he hated it, if everyone hated it, he loved it. Sometimes it really got on Lincoln's nerves.

He was just about to tear into him when someone hurried into the room, heels clicking. He looked up...and froze.

Ms. DiMartino.

Every boy has that one woman who sends their heart into overdrive. For Clyde, it was Kylie, for him, it was Ms. DiMartino. Tall and shapely with long, silky black hair, liquid brown eyes, skin like warm caramel, and a lipstick smile that begged for fleeting kisses, Ms. DiMartino was perfection full stop. She wore a red skirt that reached to her exquisitely crafted knees, a pink blouse which clung to her supple breasts, and gold earrings that gently swayed with the motion of her hips. She clutched a cup of gas station coffee in her hand and carried a tote bag.

Ms. DiMartino had been a substitute teacher for Royal Woods since late last school year when she subbed for Mrs. Frinks, the resident alegbra Nazi. She came into the room like a queen in a fairy tale, and the nervous smile she flashed stopped Lincoln's heart dead in its tracks.

Do you believe in love at first sight? Because he sure did.

She sat her coffee down on the desk and turned to the class. "Sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly. Her voice was soft, smooth, and seasoned with just a hint of an accent. "Mr. Kemper is ill and I had to _rush _in." She laughed musically, and a hazy smile spread across Lincoln's lips.

Well, looks like today just got a whole lot better.

* * *

Detective Norman Derringer, LAPD, pulled the Crown Vic to the curb and killed the engine. His partner, Troy Evans, glanced out the window and grimaced. "Looks like today just got a whole lot worse."

They were in front of an overgrown lot wedged between an abandoned apartment building with gaping, glassless windows and a row of decaying houses where bums squatted and junkies junked. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the dry wind and uniforms kicked through the tall, dying grass like children on an Easter Egg hunt. Squad cars blocked the street, their lights flashing soundlessly, and a cop grilled a group of niggers on the corner. Derringer sneered distastefully and slipped on his sunglasses. He hated places like this, and every time he was forced into them, he felt like a white explorer lost in the depths of Africa. The land was no good, the natives were savages, and the cities were little more than straw huts and stacks of Ebola dead. As fate would have it, his job as a homicide detective brought him here often - who would have thought a bunch of bush niggers would be trouble?

Derringer hated niggers. He hated a lot of things and he wasn't a man who could grin and bear it for very long; if he spent too much time around something he despised, he started to seethe, and if he started to seethe, he'd get violent.

Right now, that was beside the point. He was in as good a mood as he could muster these days. He slipped his sunglasses on and flashed a winning smile in the rearview. A solid man with broad shoulders, jet black hair, and high cheekbones, he was handsome and he knew it. Everyone else did, too. They might not make it obvious, but they looked. Every woman wanted him and every man envied him, and he made sure to strut and smile as often as possible as a way of mocking them. He kept one eye always on the people around him, and took special delight in their awe and jealousy. From afar, he was good looking, but up close, with his magnetic personality exerting its pull, he was beautiful.

And special. Everyone knew that two seconds after meeting him. He was smarter, stronger, favored by destiny and imbued with rare brilliance. Things always worked out for him and he _always _got his way.

Sooner or later.

A vision flickered across his mind, a woman's face, and his cocky grin faltered. A pinprick of hot anger ignited in his chest and threatened to grow, but he quashed it. "One step closer to getting our man," he said and forced the smile back. As radiant as it was, it never touched his icy blue eyes, and it always felt out of place. Some of us - the fakes and crooks - are born with the innate ability to fake those fraudulent things called emotions, but not him. It took years of practicing in front of the mirror for him to get it just right.

"A parking ticket could do that," Troy pointed out.

Troy was a nigger, tall, flattop, mustache, clad in jeans and a button up shirt under a brown blazer. He wore his shield on a lanyard around his neck like a rapper's gold chain and carried his piece in a rig under his arm. Derringer didn't like anyone - they were _all _beneath him, mud people to his shining Jesus - but he could stand Troy. Troy was okay...which was high praise coming from him.

"Maybe he left one near the vic," Derringer said with a lopsided grin. He threw the door open and got out. A chain-link fence separated the lot from the street but didn't reach all the way. They ducked through the gap and walked toward the activity.

Sergeant Ullman, a short, disgusting little fat man with a walrus mustache, walked over to meet them. He was the kind of guy Derringer bullied in school, and it took everything he had to keep from slapping him around now.

"What do we got?" Derringer asked, immediately establishing dominance. He was in charge of every crime scene he stepped onto, and his partner was his personal assistant. Troy knew his place and never tried bucking up. A lotta cops don't do that. They wanna be top dog, like his last partner. Poor, uppity bastard took a bullet during a shootout with Crips in Crenshaw, may he rot in piss.

Ullman glanced over his shoulder and Derringer followed his line of sight. A woman lay on her stomach in the grass, naked save for a shirt and socks. Flies landed on and took off from the pale, fleshy globes of her ass and antis crawled over her back. "Hispanic female, roughly thirty, beaten, strangled."

"Rape?"

"Has our guy raped anyone yet?"

His snarky tone enraged Derringer and he came so close to grabbing the son of a bitch by his throat that his heart lurched. No, he hadn't raped anyone yet, but a few times he came _really_ close. "Did he leave his calling card?"

"Yep."

"Fourth one this month," Troy said.

"They're coming closer together," Ullman said. "He's losing control."

The snide lift in his voice was not lost on Derringer, and the pinprick was back, bigger now, simmering in the middle of his chest like a bed of hot coals. "I doubt that," he said.

'He' was The Los Angeles Ripper. At least that's what the press called him, because of course they did - gotta scaremonger and sell papers. Derringer called him The Shadow, after the old radio series, because that's what he was, a shadow. No one saw him, no one heard him, and he left no evidence. Since June, he had murdered nine women and so far, CSI had nothing. No hairs, no fibers, not even a partial print. The guy was clean and efficient. He killed the vics somewhere else then dumped them in slums for a pimp or pusher to find. His pattern was sporadic, but his type wasn't: All were Latinas, all were hookers and street people - the ones no one would miss - and all were savagely battered and strangled.

Standing over the latest edition, Derringer sniffed the air like a bloodhound. The sickly-sweet odor of rotting meat pinched the back of his nose. Decomposition was already setting in. He laid his foot on her shoulder like a conquering general and rolled her onto her back. "You shouldn't -" Ullman started, but Derringer ignored him. The woman, eyes open and cloudy with death, had been pretty in life. In death, she looked rough, purple bruises, black eyes, broken teeth. She looked familiar, and something about the haughty arrangement of her features pissed him off.

Like all the others, her lips were coated in bright red lipstick.

He stared down at her, the ball of fury in his chest growing in size and intensity. His mood, high from the night before, tanked, and his lips pulled doggishly back from his teeth. She was mocking him, even dead, the resemblance to _her _a giant, flashing middle finger. _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. _He took a hissing breath through his teeth and looked away. If he didn't, he'd bring his foot down on her nose with all his might and finish the job.

Troy whistled. "Look at the hack job he did on this one."

The woman's neck was a crumpled, mangled mess.

"Losing control," Ullman said again, his absolute certainty cleaving through Derringer like a knife.

"He's not losing control," Derringer said defensively. He glared down at the woman's face, transfixed, imagining someone else lying there, someone who _really _deserved it. Her. The snooty little bitch who thought she could get away, who honestly thought he'd let her go.

Loathing coursed through his veins like bile, and his heart knocked against his ribs.

He wasn't losing control.

He _wasn't_.

* * *

At the end of the day, the woman gathered her things, turned out the light, and walked down the empty corridor, the click of her heels resounding through the desolation like the hoofbeats of approaching doom. Her heartbeat sped up and dread flooded her stomach.

She wrestled control of herself from the jaws of panic but compromised by quickening her step. A door slammed behind her, and her heart jolted. It was nothing, just someone leaving like her. Don't look back, there's no reason to look back.

The nape of her neck prickled, and she looked back. A janitor in gray coveralls pushed a wheeled trash barrel toward the gym, and she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. See?

A tired smile ran across her face and hot shame colored her cheeks. She was on edge today and, well, this is what it did to her. Most days, she was fine, the scars on her body and her heart whole and healed, but some days, she was a nervous wreck, and the scabs that covered her long ago wounds peeled off to reveal the seeping, throbbing mass beneath. She went back to the previous night's dream, the one that woke her in the first light of dawn, panting and covered in sweat. It rang though her mind like a scream, but she couldn't remember details...only that in it, _he _found her.

Nightmares were a bad way to start your morning, especially one you couldn't recall. She tried to forget it, but she returned to it again and again, prodding it, trying to remember it as though her life depended on it. At lunch, it finally came back to her. She was in bed reading by lamplight, safe and happy. She started to turn the page but froze when the tinkle of breaking glass sounded from the living room. Her body seized up and her heart jumped into her mouth. She tried to reach for the gun in her nightstand, but she was paralyzed, the edges of her vision pulsing and blood crashing in her temples. Slow, heavy footsteps came down the hall, and she was powerless to do anything but wait.

She never saw him in that dream, but she felt his big hands close around her throat, felt her lungs bursting for air, felt the sting of him thrusting spitefully into her. When she woke, it was with a shriek lodged in her throat. The shadows shrouding her were alive with malice, and she fumbled with the lamp, shaking so badly she almost fell out of bed. Light scattered them away, and for a long time, she sat there with the gun in her hands, too afraid to move. When she was calmer, she got up and checked the entire house, looking in every nook and cranny big enough to conceal a six foot tall man and trying each door and window, looking for signs of violation.

There were none.

She was alone.

Scares like this didn't happen as often as they once did. In the beginning, she was always afraid, always tense, sure that he would make good on his promise to kill her. As time passed, she relaxed, but during these not-so-infrequent predawn episodes, she reverted to the terror stricken woman she was eight months ago, keenly aware of his presence. He was out there, she told herself, and he would find her. She knew him, she was _married _to him...he wouldn't let her go. One day, maybe in six months, maybe in twenty years, he would come for her. He was a proud, narcissistic man who never let a slight go unpunished, why would he forgive her leaving him? He wouldn't. He was somewhere right this second, fuming, getting madder and madder. At some point, he would snap...and when he did, he would come like Death itself.

Late autumn twilight held sway over the parking lot, and her step faltered. Her car was across the way, parked under an arch sodium lamp pole and facing the street. Her grip unconsciously tightened on her purse, and she worriedly chewed her red bottom lip.

She was being stupid.

He wasn't here and he wasn't coming.

While she told herself that, she could sense him like a gazelle senses a lion. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him.

Taking a deep breath, she scurried across the asphalt and reached her car unmolested. She dug through her purse for her keys, and jumped with a gasp when someone spoke to her left. "Hey, Ms. DiMartino."

Maya DiMartino whipped her head around. Lincoln Loud stood on the sidewalk with four girls, one with black hair, two with blonde, and another with brown. She had subbed enough at the elementary school to know their names: Lucy, Lola, and Lisa.

"Hello, Lincoln," she said and flashed a quick, tight smile.

Lincoln cast about for something else to say, but only returned her smile. He looked as overwrought as she felt.

An awkward moment passed, then he rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh...going home?"

Short with white hair, brown eyes, and slight overbite, his face smattered with freckles, Lincoln was a cute boy whose grades were average. He never got in trouble, as far as she knew, but was also not an honor student. The few times she subbed for one of his teachers, he was polite and courteous. Several times, she caught him looking at her. The first time, it sent a shiver down her spine, for she saw in his eyes the same look she saw in her husband's...the same look she imagined she saw in every man's eyes now. The next time, she realized she was mistaken. After what she'd been through, men, frankly, scared her, and she had to caution herself that not every one was like her husband.

"Yes," she replied just as awkwardly, "I-I'm going home now."

He nodded deeply. His face glowed red, with chill or embarrassment she couldn't tell, and he grasped for something to say. Before he could, Lola threw back her head and sighed. "Can we go now? I'm cold."

Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck again. "I-I gotta go. Have a good day."

"You too."

He turned and hurried off, looking for all the world like he was fleeing, and his sisters followed. She watched them until they were out of sight, then unlocked her car and got in. She wasn't stupid. He had a crush on her. Lots of boys did. She didn't know whether to be flattered or disturbed, and there were times she was both...occasionally at the same time.

Turning the key in the ignition, she backed up and drove through the dusky streets of Royal Woods. She got home just as the last light drained from the sky and pulled into the driveway. Her house, a one story Cape Cod with gray siding, white trim, and a gray roof sat on the end of Jointer Avenue, another house on the left and a stand of forest stretching the two blocks to Railroad Street on the right. It was small, cozy, and normally put her at ease.

But not tonight.

She sat behind the wheel and stared warily at the darkened windows. Anyone could be crouched inside, waiting to attack.

Stupid. She was being stupid. He had no idea where she was. When she left, she was convinced he was all-seeing, all-knowing, a cruel god who would exact his retribution swiftly and violently.

He wasn't. He was a man. A dark man, a hateful man, a man who hurt her more times than she could count, but a man nonetheless.

Her phone buzzed in her purse, and her heart sank.

Wrong. She was wrong. It would be him calling to tell her he was inside, waiting.

Licking her lips, she dug the phone out and looked at the screen.

ELENA.

Relief washed over her and she hit the TALK button. "Hello?"

"Hey," Elena said. Elena was her older sister and the one who finally persuaded her to leave. Together, they stole away under the cover of night and went east with no destination in mind. Elena was her rock. When their mother died when she was fifteen, Elena dropped out of college, got a job, and supported them for three years while she finished school. She wasn't perfect, but she tried her best to be everything Maya needed, and for that, she was endlessly grateful. "I had to tell you this. I borrowed one of my coworkers' cars to go to the store tonight, right? Well...guess who's the proud owner of a brand new speeding ticket."

Maya laughed. Elena was the very definition of a law abiding citizen, responsible, respectful of authority, and cautious in every aspect of life. Sometimes, however, when she was in a rush, she sped. "How fast were you going?"

"Fifty."

"Oh, that's not -"

"In a twenty-five."

Oh.

"The cop was a real jerk about it. He called me a monster!"

Maya's smile faltered.

She knew all about cops being jerks.

"Anyway, I gotta get back on the floor. Just wanted to vent a little."

Elena worked as a CNA at a hospital in Detroit. Her shift began at 3pm and ended at 11pm.

"Okay, when you're off, call back and you can finish."

"I plan to," Elena sang, "bye."

"Bye."

Maya clicked END and slipped the phone back into her purse. Hearing her sister's voice gave her the strength to get out and go inside.

Before she could relax, she checked the house for her husband.

With her gun.


	2. The Substitute

**Anonymous789: This story was inspired by Rose Madder, especially Norman's name. I didn't like that novel very much and felt it would have been stronger if the supernatural element was removed, but I did enjoy the human drama aspect - abused woman being stalked by her crazed ex-husband - so I used that as the basis of this. **

**Guest: Lincoln just doesn't like cringe.**

* * *

**Lyrics to **_**Driver's Seat **_**by Sniff 'n' the Tears (1978)**

_Hey, uh, going home? _

Lincoln, sitting up in bed and trying to lose himself in a comic book, cringed at the memory of his encounter with Ms. DiMartino.

It was past nine and the day was winding down: Lola and Lana were bathed and in bed, Luan and Lynn were finishing their homework, and Lucy was sulking in the vents because Lynn called her Count Dorkula again. The faint glow of the bedside lamp cast the room in sleepy hues, and rain tapped a lulling beat on the window pane. Lincoln, clad only in jeans and a pair of socks, reclined against the headboard, his scrawny chest bared to the world. Ace Savvy stared appreacticely down from the wall (nice nipples, kid) and Bun-Bun looked on from his perch on the dresser, his head cocked quizzically to one side as though he couldn't figure out how Lincoln could remove his fur without screaming bloody murder.

He'd been here for nearly half an hour, and so far, he had made it only three pages in; every time he started to read, his mind would wander back to Ms. DiMartino. His chest would tighten, his stomach would flutter, and his concentration broke like a fat guy's diet. In his mind, she stood before him with that nervous little smile she wore the first time he met her, her hair perfect and silky save for a few harried strands around her forehead. Her hair wasn't really like that, but for some reason, that's the way he always saw it. Combined with the anxious, upward hilt of her lips and the tense set of her shoulders, it made her look...he knitted his brow and attempted to come up with a word, but it eluded him, dancing mockingly just out of his reach. Shy? Coy? One of those two, or maybe a third option that wasn't in his limited vocabulary. At any rate, when he called up that image of her face, the urge to hug her came over him like a spill of sunshine, and the band closed even more around his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Taking a deep breath that did little to relieve the pressure in his chest, he flipped the page. Ace Savvy was surrounded by Klansmen and Black Panthers; though they were mortal enemies, they teamed up to fight him because…

He turned back a few pages.

Oh, right, because they were both being controlled by George Soros. Huh. There had to be more to it than that but he didn't feel like digging it up right now.

_Going home?_

A shiver went through him and his teeth ground lightly together. As it turned out, Mom and Dad were both late and he had to pick his sisters up from their things: Lisa from her symposium, Lola from cheerleading practice, and Lucy from Young Mortician's Club. Head ducked against the rain, he rushed to the museum, grabbed Lisa, then went back for Lola, Lana, and Lucy. On the way home, Lola bellyached about the cold and her ankle. Apparently, she and her squad were trying out a new move that involved Lola climbing onto of a teeming pyramid of human bodies, and she took a header from fifteen feet up.

"My ankles hurts, Lincy, carry me."

He gave her a piggyback ride for two whole blocks, then made her get off because she was heavier than she looked.

They were passing the middle school when he spotted Ms. DiMartino in all her splendor. Hand clutching the strap of her purse, she scurried across the parking lot like a mouse wary of hawks, and Lincoln's heart jolted so hard he stumbled. A thin strip of grass separated the sidewalk from her car, and as she approached, seemingly coming to him like an angelic visitation, Lincoln's stomach dropped to his feet.

She didn't notice them and started to unlock the driver side door. His mind blanked his and his knees knocked; she was somehow even more beautiful now, out of school, than she was earlier.

Lincoln wasn't stupid, he knew damn well that she was an adult and he a kid, knew with a sharp pang of loss that she would never even _look _at him in that way, but the urge, the _compulsion_, to speak gripped him.

So he did.

And he made himself look stupid. Standing before the most gorgeous creature this side of heaven, her big brown eyes fixed on him and him alone, he seized up like a deer in the headlights. If he had the presence of mind to think ahead, he would have realized that talking to her was a bad idea. Even now, hours later and esconded in the comfort of his own bedroom, his face burned with humiliation.

At least he got to hear her voice one last time today. He'd been replaying it through his head all evening like the sweetest music, and it left him flushed from head to toe.

Setting the comic aside, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair. There was no worse feeling than lovesickness, and right now, he had a case for the record books. This wasn't new - it happened every time he saw her - but it was keener, more pressing, digging into his guts like steely claws. She weighed heavy on his mind and every other thought was of her.

It was misery.

He needed to distract himself somehow. Was it too late to get Luan to show him her new act?

Getting up, he padded into the hall. Every door was closed tight save for the one leading to the darkened bathroom. A crack of light shone under Luan's door, and he went to it, knocking lightly. She called out and he poked his head in.

Seventeen and numerically the oldest still at home, Luan sat at her desk beneath the window, her legs crossed and her chin resting in her upturned palm. She tapped her pencil restively against the surface, producing a steady though toneless beat. Her rust colored hair spilled over her shoulders like dirty water and one foot jiggled in time with the rhythm of her pencil.

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off without turning. "I'm really busy with this calculus."

Oh. Well, there goes _that_.

He pulled the door closed again and went to Lola and Lana's room next. Maybe Lola wanted to model a new outfit or something. Normally he didn't care to spend his time judging the merits and demerits of dresses and skirts, but he was getting desperate. He knocked, waited, then turned the knob when no one answered.

Lana and Lola both lay in their beds, Lana curled up on her side with a hazy smile on her lips and Lola flat on her back, snoring and drooling like a three hundred pound lumberjack. The lamp on the nightstand between their beds burned with tepid brilliance, painting them in rosey suffusion.

Damn.

Pushing away from the door, he walked over, turned the lamp out, and briefly considered waking one or both of them, but decided against it. Instead, he pecked each one of the forehead like a mother tucking her babies in for the night, then returned to his room. Fine, he guessed he'd just sit here like a man in a conflagration. He dropped onto his bed, the mattress bowing under his butt, and glowered at the wall.

There's something especially tragic in pining after that which is forbidden. WIth a girl like Cristina, for whom he once felt the same way, you can at least lay your cards on the table. Maybe she'll accept your heart, maybe she won't, but in the end, there is a sense of closure, even if she rejects you. _Well, hey, I tried, but it's just not gonna happen. Better move on with my life. _He didn't have that here. Oh, he knew full well that it just wasn't going to happen, but he couldn't get it out of his system and _try _like he could with a girl his own age. He had to keep it inside, where it would fester, swell, then back into his bloodstream, give him toxic shock syndrome, and kill him.

She smiled in the recesses of his mind, her face filling the darkness like the crest of the rising sun. She looked nervous and vul -

It clicked.

Vulnerable. That was the word, There was a certain vulnerability about her, and gazing upon it triggered his primal instincts...awoke in him the desire to hold and protect her.

He dubiously scrunched his lips. That's what a man is made to do, isn't it? Protect the ones he loves? You can call it old-fashioned, call is sexist, but men and women evolved to fulfill distinct biological and societal purposes, and a man's was to provide and protect.

Revelation stirred deep in the back of his brain, and for a moment, an ephiany began to take shape, then, like a puff of smoke on the wind, it was gone.

Man, these were some heavy thoughts for a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush.

Heh, he was mediocre in a lot of areas, but when it came to melodrama, he was king.

He should go to bed and sleep it off.

Sounds like a plan.

Getting to his feet, he pulled his jeans down, stepped out of them, and threw them at the overfull laundry hamper.

They missed.

Lori was once responsible for doing laundry, but after she left, anarchy ruled and it was every man for himself. A long time ago, Lucy, in one of her more affectionate moments (after he stood up for her against Lynn's teasing), said "You're the glue that holds this family together, Lincoln." He didn't know if he believed that, but he flushed with importance anyway. Now, he saw that he wasn't...Lori was.

In only his underwear, he turned down the covers, climbed into bed, and drew the blanket over his chest. His mind buzzed with thoughts of Ms. DiMartino and his stomach ached like a dying heart; if he wasn't in for a long night, he as the queen of England.

On the dresser, Bun-Bun went on staring with those dull black eyes. "Got any advice for me?" Lincoln asked archly.

The rabbit didn't reply.

"Didn't think so," he said. "Lori would."

There was an accusatory edge in his voice, as though Bun-Bun _weren't _a lifeless object, but a real person. It was true, though, Lori _would _give him advice; she just loved it when he came to her about a girl. Kind of a bonding thing or something.

What could she tell him, though?

_Kiss her, Linc._

Okay, then. Pucker up, Ms. -

SLAP.

AHHH, IT'S RONNIE ANNE ALL OVER AGAIN!

Okay, Lori's advice wasn't always the best, but that wasn't the point: She listened to him when he needed and tried her best to help. She was bossy, yeah, but you know what? You gotta run a tight ship around here. That wasn't _his _leadership style, but she got the job done quickly and efficiently.

Leaning over, he turned out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He nestled into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Instantly, Ms. DiMartino's face materialized on the backs of his lids, stopping his heart in its tracks. He drank her in like a man imbuing the finest wine, lingering on her red, kissable lips and her glistening eyes, the delicate curve of her throat, her satiny, midnight hair. He let out a ragged breath and rolled onto his left side.

He was right about one thing.

It was a _long _night.

* * *

Loud, tinny music reverberated off grimy walls and pulsating red light bathed the bar like blood. Beer, vomit, and sawdust choked the stale air, pinching Norman Derringer's nose, and people jostled for position at the counter. He slipped off his sunglasses, jammed one of the plastic arms into the collar of his polo, and looked around, cold loathing gurgling in the pit of his stomach. He hated places like this, hated the trash that blew in, the mudpeople, whores, and white niggers who drank themselves stupid and called it fun. They stole, sold their food stamps, and sucked dick just to piss their money away on cheap booze and even cheaper drugs. They were stupid and their lives were a braindead cycle of waking up, killing time, then going to bed. What kind of existence is that? Putting a bullet in their heads would be doing them a favor, and he was suddenly aware of the gun on his hip.

Instead, he scanned the room and spotted his mark, a tall Hispanic woman sitting at the end of the bar with a bottle of Corona melting in front of her. She wore a tight black dress that stopped well above her knees, fuck-me pumps, and a gold cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. The Bible says fucking men for 120 a pop is a sin. How Marcia Gomez reconciled that with her profession, Derringer didn't know. He chalked it up to people being fucking hypocrites. They pound their chest about God and mortality in public, but behind closed doors, they were perverts, child molesters, and faggots.

Life, Norman Derringer had learned, was a game, and in order to win the game, you have to play it. You get up every day, put on a smile, and pretend you aren't a sack of shit.

He wasn't, he was special, but he couldn't wear that fact on his sleeve. He had to hide it and go through the motions. He had to act like he cared about the scum he came across, had to front like he didn't detest every single one of them. After years, he was good. He voted Democrat, talked about women's rights, and bled from the heart for niggers, transvestites, and border jumping spics. Oh, that poor man and his precious little baby girl drowned. How terrible. No one knew he had that pic saved on his phone, culled from CNN, no one knew that he took it out and smiled at it like a man at a favorite snapshot.

If they did, they'd think he was crazy.

Elbowing through the crowd, he made his way to the bar. Marcia glanced up then quickly back down when he appeared next to her. A lot of working girls snitch to the cops. They're in the perfect position to see and hear what's going down on the streets, and homicide _loved _their hookers. The vice squad, well, that was another story, but fuck vice, they were a bunch of toothless, no-dick faggots anyway. "Evening," Derringer said.

Marcia responded by lifting her beer to her lips. Anger detonated in Derringer's chest and he almost slammed her face against the counter. It was because of him she wasn't in jail right now, and she _still _had a fucking attitude.

What do you expect from a woman, though? They're worse than niggers. They skate by in life on their looks or their pussy then whine because they _oh, we don't get paid the same. Equality now! _Yet if you treated one equal and punched her in the face for being a shit, she started crying domestic violence. The liberals were _real _fucking bad about that. They said women should be treated exactly the same but the moment you hit one, they shared their slacktivist memes _you lose the right to call yourself a man if you put your hands on a woman. _Fuck women. Women were sluts, whores, and golddiggers. Their only loyalty was to themselves and to money. You don't need more pay, honey, you got perks because you have a slit between your thighs and men are fucking mindless dogs who value that over everything else.

That's why women were so snotty these days. All they had to do was wiggle their little finger and men jumped higher than David Lee Roth on speed. Fucking smug, self-satisfied cunts. They were never happy.

Fury seethed in him like a stormy sea. His hand closed into a fist, his teeth ground, and the edge of his vision went gray. Marcia's haughty profile shimmered like a mirage, and when her face _changed_, Derringer's breast tightened.

For a fleeting moment, she wasn't Marcia at all.

She was someone _else_, another stuck up spic bitch who thought her shit didn't stink.

Derringer began to slip, and dragged himself back from the precipice. It got harder and harder every time, and if he wasn't careful, his rage would consume him.

"What do you want?" Marcia asked impatiently.

The bartender came over, and Derringer waved him away. He didn't drink. Drinking was for the weak. "We found a body in a vacant lot this morning," he said. He reached into his pocket, took out a picture, and slid it across the counter. The vic lay on a metal table, a blue sheet pulled to her breasts and her black hair fanned out around her head. Her pink rimmed eyes were open and staring, seeming to look at, and through you. Her pale, purplish face was crisscrossed with cuts, bruises, and abrasions.

Marcia stole a quick, timid look, then turned her head pointedly away, squirming uncomfortably. A wicked grin carved across Derringer's craggy face, and a malicious light twinkled in his frigid eyes. She was unnerved, and he enjoyed it immensely. Not so high and mighty now, are you, bitch?

"You know her?" he asked. His eyes bore into her like lasers, and one corner of his mouth sharpened like the blade of a knife. He imagined he could smell her the way a predator smells its prey, Dollar Store perfume masking the wild scent of her unwashed sex. How many times had she been fucked today? How many men jammed themselves into her while she counted the ceiling tiles and wished she was somewhere else? Did she even make them wear condoms? Or did she take their loads into rancid fucking thing?

Her only response was a body-wide shiver. He was getting to her. Assuming his best tone of humility, which was perfect just like everything he did, he said, "Please, look at the picture. I need your help here, okay?"

She sucked a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly. She jerked her eyes to the picture once more, and her lips twisted in horror. "No," she finally said. Marcia Gomez had been informing to him for three years, long enough that he could read her like an open book. She was telling the truth.

Derringer took the photo away and returned it to his pocket. Marcia picked up her beer, and it trembled in her hand. Take heed, this is what hooking gets you, bitch. "You haven't heard anything? No talk? Nothing?"

She shook her head. "No. Everyone's scared, but...you do what you gotta do."

The Los Angeles Ripper wasn't the first serial killer to tear through L.A.'s transient population, and he wouldn't be the last. Every time, it was the same thing: Bodies turning up, discarded like trash, and girls worrying every John was going to be their last. Some perps have a special hatred for prostitutes, but most target them because they're easy. They get in your car willingly, and don't think twice when you take them somewhere secluded. The world doesn't stop because there's a madman loose; they still gotta make rent and feed their addictions, so they eat the risk and sometimes...well, sometimes things go bad for them.

"Any weirdos around?" he asked. The music from the jukebox had stopped at some point, and now it came roaring back. Instead of modern pop or rap, it was something older, piano and background harmonies; it was a song Derringer thought he knew but couldn't place.

_Doing all right_

_A little jiving on a Saturday night_

_And come what may_

_Gonna dance the day away_

Marcia shrugged one shoulder. "There's always weirdos around," she said.

She had him there. A guy who has to pay for it was a weirdo to begin with. Some of them liked the thrill of banging a random piece of ass they had to pay for, but most were losers who couldn't get laid in a fucking hen house. A real man goes out and takes what he wants, including pussy; these incels had to fork over a day's pay and then some. Derringer hated them almost as much as he hated niggers and women.

"Any of them stand out?"

_Pick up your feet_

_Got to move to the trick of the beat_

_There is no elite_

_Just take your place in the driver's seat_

Marcia leaned her head back to think, and Derringer's eyes were drawn to her throat, so soft, so tender, so chokable. "Well," she said after a minute, "there is this one guy. He doesn't wanna do anything put his finger in my ass."

Derringer favored her with a blank stare. That's not what he meant by weird and she fucking knew it. "That's a pretty routine weirdo," he said, trying and succeeding to keep the pique out of his voice. "I'm talking about guys who like it rough. Too rough. Things like that."

_Jenny was sweet_

_She always smiled for the people she meet_

_On trouble and strife_

_She had another way of looking at life_

"No," she said, "nothing."

Again, she was being honest. Marcia was smarter than a lot of other girls; instead of loitering on corners waiting for someone to pick her up, she advertised online. You might not think hookers can do that, but they can, and they do. They call themselves escorts and make _very _clear that the "donation" is for their "time only" and "anything else that happens is between two consenting adults." You know damn well what they were gonna do. No one rents a girl for half an hour to play Fortnight. They're doing a _different _kind of flossing.

Being a comparative shut-in decreased Marcia's value, but she was established, well-connected, and headed her own crew of five women. They shared a number, chipped in to get motel rooms for work, and split the profits, with most going to Marcia since she was the brains. Hahahaha, fucking rich. Marcia might be an old head, but she was still stupid enough to think that an undercover cop has to reveal his identity if asked "Are you a cop?"

_Are you law enforcement?_

_Well, damn, lady, you got me. You win this round. _

Why are people so fuckng retarded? It was common fucking sense!

Now he was pissed off again.

_The news is blue (The news is blue)_

_Has its own way to get to you (Ooh-ooh)_

_What can I do? (What can I do?)_

_When I remember my time with you_

She finished her beer and looked up at him. In the throbbing red half-light, she reminded him of someone, and the rage always inside of him, always growing and barely contained, tinged with lust. "Is that all?" she asked.

Derringer flicked his eyes from hers, dark with mystery, to her pouty lips. His crotch stirred, and his smile took on a vicious quality.

Fifteen minutes later, he unlocked the front door of his apartment on the southernmost edge of Buena Park and snapped on the light. The living room was neat, tidy, everything arranged just so, as if dressed by a fussy interior designer for a photo shoot. Derringer was obsessively clean. He kept the apartment just as kempt as he did his body. Both were his temple and he hated a mess in either one.

As immaculate as it may have been, there was still something off, something that almost everyone who visited noticed: It was soulless. Drab. There were no paintings on the wall, no posters, no sports memorabilia, nothing to indicate the tastes of the man who lived there, if he had any. His wife once called it a body without a soul, and the implication that there was something wrong with him sent him into a rage.

Marcia came in behind him and he closed the door, locking the handle and engaging the security chain. She crossed to the sofa without being told to, and he went into the kitchen. Chrome appliances, Formica countertop, every surface as sterile as an operating theater. He drew himself a glass of water at the tap and watched her through the archway as he drank; she sat there with her knees pressed together and her hands in her lap, waiting. He was crazily reminded of those plastic mounted fish that start to sing and flop when you walked past them. When you aren't around, it hangs there, lifeless and waiting as surely as Marcia was now. He studied her face, her bare legs, the mounds of her breasts pushing out the front of her dress. She resembled _her _only passingly, but it was enough to get him thinking, and once he got thinking, he got _mad_.

Three years...three fucking years...and the slut threw it all away. One morning, he woke up and she was gone, slunk off in the night like the whore he always knew she was. Women are dogs. They wander if you don't chain them up. He expected more from her, thought he fucking taught her.

In a way, it was his fault for not being stricter, but she should have known better. She vowed to love, honor, and OBEY him until death did them part, but what did she do? She ran off with that pig sister of hers to FUCK OTHER MEN!

Wrath, hot as boiling tar, surged through his veins, and his head pounded with each blast of his heart. His vision strained, and he felt himself beginning to lose control. He clamped down, but it was too late; like a shark with the scent of blood in its nose, he was blind in his thirst. A passenger in his own mind, he watched himself stalk into the living room, watched Marcia start to turn, saw the fear in her eyes when he grabbed her around the throat. She let out a strangled cry and scratched frantically at the backs of his hands. Cheeks bulging, eyes protruding from their sockets, she looked just like Maya, and Derringer gave voice to his frenzy. His fist crashed into her face, and she slid off the sofa, lying limp on the floor between it and the coffee table. Straddling her, Derringer battered her nose, her lips, relishing the crunch of breaking bones and the hot kiss of her blood. She thrashed and screamed, her arms desperately waving as she fruitless tried to ward off his attack.

"You fucking bitch!" he hissed through his teeth. Spittle flew from his lips and a crazed look crept into his eyes. Blood gushed from her ruined nose and tattered lips; broken teeth littered the carpet and blood stained the fibers. He plunged his hand into her hair, pulled her head forward, and slammed it against the floor. She sobbed and gurgled an abject plea. "FUCK YOU!" he roared. He wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed, his thumbs pressing into her larynx and crushing her windpipe. She belonged to HIM. Who did she think she was LEAVING LIKE THAT?

Maya's body convulsed beneath him, bucking in her death throes and grinding his rock hard erection. She gasped, rattled, and went still, and Derringer tightened his grip. Drops of blood spackled his face and his wide eyes roiled with madness.

Slowly, he came back to himself like a man waking from a trance. Ragged breaths burst from his lips and he was so hard it hurt. The woman's shattered face changed; she was no longer Maya, his wayward slut of a wife, but Marcia the rent-a-fuck.

Realizing he lost control...again...he released her crumpled neck and rocked back on his knees, his bloody hands raking through his hair.

She wasn't Maya, but she was close enough, closer than all the others, so close that he did something he'd never done with any of the previous nine.

He unbuckled his belt.

Bracing his hands on either side of her head, he thrust into her so hard that her body jumped. She was warm, tight, and slick, just like Maya had been, and when he closed his eyes, there was no difference: Maya used to just lay there too, like she was reluctantly doing him a favor. When he came, he moaned with the force of his orgasm and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Her cooling flesh grazed his lips, and he instinctively took it between his teeth and bore down, puncturing it; the coppery taste of pennies filled his mouth, and his second volley left him in a back-pinching rush.

For a long time, he lay atop the dead woman, his rod still firmly embedded in her womb. Finally, he pushed himself up and stared blankly down at his handiwork. His anger had receded but his mind was still shrouded in its smoke. How did Marcia get here? And why did he kill her?

Gradually, he remembered.

He lost his temper.

Cold numbness spread over him, and tucking his dick back into his pants, he got to his feet and buckled his belt. Blood soaked into the carpet and splattered the sofa. More oozed from Marcia's face. God, it was a jagged mess of bone and gore, unrecognizable and gushing like a spring.

He damned himself as a fool. Sloppy, he was getting sloppy, and that's how they get you. They don't tell you this on _Law & Order_, but most bad guys catch themselves; they fuck something up, leave too much evidence behind, and lead the cops right to their doorstep. He prided himself on being clean and cautious, and spur-of-the-moment crimes of passion were anything _but_.

If this kept up, they'd catch him.

Leaving Marcia where she fell, he went into his bedroom and snapped on the light. The rest of the house was ordered and contrived to be as normal and inoffensive as possible, but here, in his inner sanctum, things were different. The sheets lay in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed, pornographic magazines, each one dedicated to rape and BDSM, were fanned messily out across the dress and nightstand, the lampshade was askew, funneling light in one direction like a prison search lamp, and articles of women's clothing were flung haphazardly here and there, some belonging to Maya, others to his victims. At night, as he struggled to douse the flames of his hatred and sleep, he would drape a pair of Maya's underwear over his face and breathe in her scent.

Pictures papered every surface of the wall: Polaroids, print-outs, a hundred, a thousand, all of Maya. Maya at the beach, Maya on the couch and wearing a tired smile, Maya lying naked in bed, handcuffed to the headboard and looking uncomfortable. In more than a few of them, her eye was blackened, and in several, the pain and mortification on her face was palpable. Those were his favorites. Sometimes, he stood there for an hour or more, staring at them and stroking the memory of her fear like a favored lapdog.

Norman Derringer had had many women in his life - could have any one he desired - but there was something special about Maya, something he had never been able to define. She was beautiful, but not remarkably so; she was kind and gentle, but those traits annoyed him; she was submissive and did what he said, but so did the others. There was nothing that set her apart from the dozens who came before, yet she captivated him. She ruled his every waking thought like a Latina queen, and after her, no woman felt as good, no core as hot, no sighs, sobs, and whimpers as musical.

Then she left, slipped out while he was asleep; she took her purse, a change of clothes, and nothing else. He woke up and she was gone.

For that betrayal, Derringer hated her, but he was prepared to let her go. He told her he'd kill her if she left him and he meant it, but in the first few days after she escaped, he was so furious that he refused to give her the satisfaction. You only kill someone if you care, and the prospect of showing her he did care brought a rush of shame to his face. He'd find another, he told himself, a woman just as meek and subservient. He'd break her down and mold her into the perfect wife.

He would have cut her loose...but she took a part of him with her. Try as he might, he couldn't get her out of his head, and the more time passed, the deeper her sank. Everything reminded him of her, and the aching loss in his chest grew sharper all the time.

You only kill someone if you care...and he cared very much about Maya.

At the dresser, he pulled open the top drawer and rummaged through socks and underwear until he found what he was looking for: A black handled hunting knife with a serrated blade and tapered point. Shoving it into his belt like a pirate's cutlass, he returned to the living room. Marcia hadn't moved, and a quick check of her pulse confirmed it: She was dead.

With the dispassionate detachment of a man moving furniture, he went around the coffee table, bent over, and picked her up. Blood and semen seeped out of her and dribbled on his shoes, but he took no notice.

At the bathroom, he bumped the door open with his hip, carried her to the tub, and laid her in. He sat the knife on the counter, went into the kitchen, and gathered all the cleaning supplies he had on hand. For the next half hour, he scrubbed the sofa and carpet. When he was done, dark patches remained, but unless you tested them, you'd never know what they were.

Back in the bathroom, he picked up the knife, knelt next to the tub, and snatched a handful of Marcia's hair. He yanked her head back to expose her throat, then sawed it open. He'd let her bleed out, then cut her into manageable pieces, take her into the hills, and burn her. He regretted not being able to leave her in a lot for all to see, but he sprayed his DNA in her, and if he didn't take precautions, he'd be in the L.A. lockup before sunset tomorrow.

Letting her head flop back against the basin, he laid the knife on the tiled floor with a clink and fixed her with a penetrating glare.

Getting up, he went to the medicine cabinet. His reflection in the mirror was stony and cold, devoid of emotion. He opened it, took out a tube of bright red lipstick Maya left behind, and knelt next to the tub. Snatching Marcia's hair, he lifted her head and applied the lipstick with painstaking precision. Done. he let he go and stared down at her.

She was like the others...a substitute. He was butchering Maya again and again, punishing her for leaving him, making her pay for turning on him. It was never good enough, though...it never quelled the fire within.

Only one thing would, and as soon as he found her…


	3. Got'cha

After a long night of tossing, turning, and struggling to keep his mind off Ms. DiMartino, Lincoln Loud rolled out of bed in the thin light of dawn and shuffled absently into the hall: A headache smoldered in his temples, his eyes were grainy, and his brain felt like it was mired in mud. In other words, he was one minor inconvenience away from diving out his bedroom window and finding out if the fall would kill him. On the bright side, he wasn't thinking of Ms. What's-her-name anymore. Kinda hard to keep up a crush when you feel like death warmed over,

Thankfully, the bathroom was free (another time, suicidal ideations, another time). He took a leak, hopped in the shower, and turned the temperature as hot as it would go...then quickly back down again after it scalded his chest. He washed with the languor of a man who doesn't care if he and his four sisters were late for school, and by the time he was done, he felt halfway alive.

Someone banged on the door. "Hurry up!"

Lola.

In the Loud house, privacy is a foregin concept, especially when it comes to the john. Lana, Lucy, Lynn, hell, everyone, would come right in, yank down their drawers, and take a piss with him right there like nothing. Oh, Linc's in the shower? Too bad, gotta go. He did the same thing: In the old days, if Lori was running late and he had to pee, he'd go in and pee. No one cared. Why would they?

But not Lola. Lola had some kind of hang up or something and absolutely would _not _use the toilet with anyone else in the room. Taking a step back, not wanting someone in your face while you're taking a morning whiz is the most natural thing in the world, but around here? Around here, _not _having someone in your face while you took your morning whiz was weird.

Cutting the water, Lincoln dried off, got out, and pulled his undies back on. Lola, Lana, Lucy, Lynn, and Luan stood in a long line at the door, and as soon as he opened it, Lola shoved him out of the way and slammed it behind her.

In his room, he dressed for the day in a pair of jeans and an orange short sleeve button up over a white t-shirt. Before leaving, he slathered Brut on his underarms. Thoughts of Ms. DiMartino were starting to creep in and his stomach was beginning to flutter and knot again.

Just ignore it, Linc.

He shoved his books into his backpack and went downstairs. Today, he didn't feel like cooking, so he and his younger sisters had cereal. After yesterday, he watched Lana with the milk like a hawk afraid of being bitched out by its mom (again). When he was sure she wasn't going to use too much, he whipped out his phone and commenced his daily scroll.

"You know who Lana looks like?" Lola asked with a mischievous hilt. Oh, no, not this shit again. "Bob the Builder...if he was a lesbian."

Lincoln rolled his eyes.

"Yeah?" Lana asked. "You look like the girl from that movie."

"What movie?"

"The one where the girl got her face knocked off by her twin sister," Lana spat.

Lincoln sat his phone aside and shot Lana and Lola a withering look. "Cut it out. I'm sick of these morning roasts. They're dumb, overdone, and repetitive."

Growing up, Lincoln's sisters would gather at the breakfast table every morning and tease each other to within an inch of their lives. It was a time honored tradition that he never cared for, not because he was a sensitive little flower-boi who couldn't take a verbal beatdown (he totally could), but because hearing the same tired, worn out jokes and taunts every day for five years almost drove him crazy.

Lola and Lana both gave him a dirty look. "Can it, cowlick," Lola said.

"Yeah," Lana agreed, "_you're _dumb, overdone, and repetitive."

Turning something around and saying _no you _is the most childish rejoinder ever rejoined, but Lincoln was tired, achy, and his head was heavy with impacted thoughts of Ms. DiMartino. That's to say: He wasn't in the mood for this, and reacted kind of poorly. "Shut up, Lana," he snapped, "Lola's right, you do look like a lesbian. Only gayer."

She gasped in shock, and Lola smirked smugly. "And you can shut up too," he said, making her stiffen, "Give me a D, give me a U, give me an M, give me a B, what's that spell?"

Lola's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Geek."

"Airhead," Lincoln said.

"Loser," Lana said.

Lucy swallowed a mouthful of cereal. "You're all mortals, so technically, all three of you suck."

"Actually," Lisa said and adjusted her glasses, "I've administered IQ tests to every single person at this table, and you are all lacking in certain mental capabilities that render you intellectually deficient in a multitude of ways."

Everyone looked at her strangely. "English, Lisa," Lola sniffed.

"Y'all dumb as some rocks, homie," Lisa said.

The entire table erupted in petty, childish insults, everyone talking over each other. Lana called Lisa Dr. Frankentard, Lola called Lucy Elvira on crack, Lincoln called Lola a future fry slinger, Lucy called Lana a dirty fleshbag, and Lisa called Lincoln a pallid imitation of our elder sibling Lori whose diminutive feet would never be able to fill her sizable shoes.

Maybe he was a sadist, but Lincoln felt much better afterwards, and so, too, did everyone else. On the way to school, moving south along the sidewalk through cascades of fire colored leaves, Lana and Lola chatted easily, Lucy explained her love of horror to a visibly intrigued Lisa ("Horror shines the light of reason on the darker aspects of the human psyche through use of monsters who serve as allegorical stand-ins for our worst traits and fears"), and Lincoln walked with a bouncy spring in his step. He and his family might be weird, but, you know, it's good to clear the air with your siblings every once in a while, kind of like dusting a closed room. They got on his nerves and each other's, and he got on theirs. They could hold it all inside and become stagnant with stale resentment, or they could throw open a window now and then and let things aerate a little.

They chose to do the latter. To an outside observer, they might seem dysfunctional, but it was like...well...it was like taking a dump, you know, purging waste and toxins from your system.

Huh.

Actually, maybe they _were _weird.

Eh, strange or not, it worked for them, and that's all that really matters in the end. Like the old saying goes, there's more than one way to skin a cat.

Shortly, they reached the elementary school. A crush of kids filed through the main doors and Mr. Bostwick, the principal, stood by the entrance greeting each one as he had since before Lincoln's time. A tall, thin man with white hair and tiny glasses that made his narrow face look far bigger than it actually was, Mr. Bostwick had, Mom told him, been captain of the good ship Royal County Elementary so long that no one could remember the guy before him. Legend has it, there _was _no guy before him - you've always been the caretaker, sir. I should know, I've always been here :weary emoji:

That was from _The Shining, _an old horror movie he watched with Lucy once. This guy and his family were trapped in this big, creepy hotel during a snowstorm, and wouldn't you know it, the place was haunted. Like _really _haunted. Oh my God, dude, ghosts _everywhere _haunted. He had to admit, what made it scary was Lucy's commentary. _This novel this movie is based on is really a metaphor for Stephen King's deepening alcoholism and fear of hurting and or letting his children down. The ghosts are really his demons, and Jack Nicholson is really him. _

Ouch.

He wasn't a horror fan, but he admired Lucy's knowledge on the subject. She could write a critical analysis about _Hooker Vampires From Outer Space _and make it sound like the most cerebral film ever committed to celluloid.

Then there was him.

_Uh, Ace Savvy is, uh...cool?_

He knew a fair amount about Ace Savvy, but nowhere near as much as Lucy knew about horror, or Lana knew about mechanics, or Lola knew about make-up.

Even as a fan he was mediocre.

At the end of the walk, he and his sisters parted ways. "Have a good day," he called over his shoulder.

"You too, Lincy," Lola said.

"Bye, Linc," Lana said.

"Bye," Lucy said.

Lisa adjusted her glasses for the umpteenth time. "Bye."

He stopped and watched until they were lost in the crowd, then went on, one hand clasped around the strap of his backpack. Alone, his thoughts turned, predictably, to Ms. DiMartino, and his stomach grew dense and heavy. He remembered feeling this way with a girl in fourth grade. Her name was Meagan Dorhamer (pronounced Door Hammer...she got teased a lot). With pale red hair, green eyes, freckles, and a gap between her teeth, she wasn't beautiful by traditional standards, but he thought she was gorgeous. She had a nice personality too. Fun, sweet, caring, real girlfriend material. He had it bad for her - nauseous, always on his mind, the works. Finally, one day, he summoned the courage to tell her how he felt. She didn't feel the same way, and it hurt, but purging those emotions - like he and his sisters purged their grievances - was liberating. The best analogy he had came from a comedy he watched with Luan once called _Friday. _This black dude took a dump, and when he came out of the bathroom, he was like, _Ahhh, I feel five pounds lighter_.

That's what bearing his heart to Meagan Dorhamer was like. Her rejection stung...a lot...but so do big poops, but you feel better afterwards.

This...this was like being constipated.

He was in sight of the middle school now, its southwest corner peeking through barren trees like the prow of a ship.

What would happen if he _did _tell Ms. DiMartino he liked her? He pictured himself sitting her down after class, taking a deep breath, and saying something like _I really like you, you're beautiful blah blah blah will you be my girlfriend? _The look of drawing horror he envisioned flashing across her face made him laugh. Having a crush on your teacher is normal - everyone has one at some point, right? - but actually telling them was a line you just did _not _cross. At the very least, it would make things really awkward between them, and at worst, she'd report him to the principal and he'd get in trouble.

How _much _trouble though?

That thought, stopped him in his tracks. There's no express rule against it, is there? What could they really do?

He blinked when he realized he was seriously entertaining this.

Oh no. No, no, no. You can _not _do that, Linc.

But why not?

He saw himself sitting across from her once again, only this time, the possibility of it coming to pass wasn't as remote. It could actually _happen_.

Tendrils of electricity shot out from the center of his stomach and he nearly doubled over.

Okay, so what if he _did _do it? They wouldn't expel him or anything, would they? It was hard to tell. They might classify it as sexual harassment or something and send him somewhere to have the toxic masculinity reeducated out of him.

Or maybe nothing would happen. Maybe she'd give him a big, patronizing smile, explain why his feelings were inappropriate, and send him on his way.

He was vaguely aware of opening his locker with no memory of entering the building. He stared vacantly at the confused heap of books and papers, his mind racing. Would she get angry if he told her he liked her? She was sweet and nice and everything else good, but...that was the lovestruck little boy talking. He didn't really _know _her. She substituted a few times and that was it. He didn't know much about her at all, come to think of it, her favorite food, her favorite color, what kind of movies she liked, who she freaking _was_.

Wow, taking a step back and critically examining it...his crush was extremely superficial.

He went back to the first time he saw her...that cute, nervous little smile...and a pang cut through his stomach. Superficial or not, the thirst was real.

...and would never be slaked.

Sigh.

But getting it out in the open was the first step to recovery. He'd tell her, mope for a while, then snap back like a weed, fresh and ready for the next honey (I sure hope she's my own age and not a frickin' adult).

He reached into the locker, sifted through, and took out his history book.

How, though? He couldn't _really _do it face to face. If yesterday was any indication, he'd shake, blush, stammer, then idk, probably melt into a puddle (clean up on aisle three!). He'd be lucky to get three words out.

Actually, he knew exactly what it'd be like.

Way back in the day (like, three years ago), Clyde had the hots for Lori..._real _bad...and every time she so much as existed in his presence, he turned to jelly and sprang a nosebleed. If he tried looking into Ms. DiMartino's eyes and telling her how he felt, he'd pop a gusher that would make Clyde's look like a joke.

Yeah, let's not do that.

Write her a letter?

Impersonal, but that might be best in this case.

Alright. He'd do it.

He was going to write Ms. DiMartino a love letter.

Gulp.

* * *

Maya DiMartino woke from a nightmare in the hour before dawn, a scream echoing in her head and cold sweat coating her spasming body. Darkness pressed close on all sides like demonic beings come to savor her suffering, and in her disoriented state, she swore someone was there, watching her with unbridled hatred.

Shaking and whimpering like a frightened little girl, she struggled to a sitting position and turned the lamp on, flooding the room with feeble light. Shadows fled into the corners like receding water, and she was alone, her sanctum empty and unviolated. She ran her fingers through her hair and fought to catch her runaway breathing. Just a dream, she told herself, that's all, just a dream.

Goosebumps ranked her arms and the back of her neck tingled anyway. She darted her eyes around the room, and even though she couldn't see anything, she could _feel _the presence of evil like electricity in the air before a storm. Leaning over, she opened the nightstand drawer. A snub-nose .38 revolver sat next to a Harlequin romance novel with a lurid cover, the two items standing in stark contrast to each other, one representing hope and one cynicism. She picked the gun up and wrapped her trembling hand around the smooth, cherrywood handle. Its comforting weight soothed her, and she gradually calmed down.

The foreboding lingered, however, and she swept her gaze around the room again, searching for hidden threats but finding nothing.

She wouldn't feel completely at ease until she checked the rest of the house.

Suddenly, she wished she left the lights on.

Gripping the gun tight, she threw the covers off and gingerly planted her feet on the floor, dreadfully sure a hand would reach out from under the bed and grab her ankle. Her heart jagged against her chest, and she drew a quivering breath into her lungs. She stood on weak knees and crept to the door with the acuity of a cat . Holding the gun in her right hand, she tried the handle with her left. Locked, just as it was when she went to bed. She turned it slowly, irrationally terrified of making too much noise, and pulled it open just enough to peer out.

The hall was a pit of blackness, deep and impenetrable as the midnight sea. She swallowed and cast a longing glance over her shoulder. It was bright here, and safe, like an oasis; out there, in the lightless void, anything could be lurking.

She slipped her finger through the trigger guard and forced herself through the gap, body tense, heart throbbing. The den was ahead, a tiny space filled with secondhand, though tasteful, furniture: Couch, coffee table, highboy, entertainment center - far more places someone could conceal themselves than she thought in the light of day. To her right, the bathroom door stood ajar, weak amber glow emanating from the nightlight plugged in above the sink. The shower curtain was drawn to one side, and even before she snapped on the overhead light, she could see that it was empty.

No one crouched between the tub and the commode, and the under-cabinet sink was too small to fit even the tiniest of intruders.

She checked it anyway.

Emboldened, she went into the living room and turned the light on. The sofa, plaid with an afghan draped over the back, sat against the far wall, a canned rocking chair to one side and a table to the other. The entertainment center faced them from a corner, and she leaned heavily to one side to see around it.

Nothing.

Crossing to the window, she pulled back the curtain. The backyard, enclosed on three sides by seven foot tall stockade fence and backed against a gravel alley like every other yard on the block, was deserted save for a patio table.

She turned, glanced at the alcove between the wall and TV again just to be sure, and went into the kitchen. The connecting door to the garage was locked tight, and she decided to forego checking it.

By now, the dream was beginning to dissipate, and the sense of danger to melt away. She relaxed, laid the gun before the microwave, leaned back against the counter, and put her face in her hands.

_I thought I was over this_.

She'd come a long way in the past eight months, but all it took was one bad night to put her on edge for days. There were long stretches where she didn't think about Norman, where his hold on her was almost imperceptible, but she always came back to this: Jumpy, scared, and creeping through the house with a gun, looking for a phantom and finding only wounds she had hoped were healed. Though he was halfway across the country, and though he had no idea where she was, he still controlled her, and when that little voice in the back of her head told her to look over her shoulder, it sounded like him.

While he wasn't here in body, he was in spirit, and she suspected that he always would be, no matter how many years passed or how brave she became. When she fled their apartment with Elena, she thought she was escaping, but she was wrong, for wherever she went, Norman always followed. Her life, even now, was not her own, and she hated him for that, hated that she could never relax, hated that she couldn't be around a man without her heartbeat quickening and her muscles coiling, hated that while she dreamed of love, romance, and a family, she was too fucking scared of winding up with another like him to even try. She'd rather stick the gun in her mouth and pull the trigger than live like that again.

Picking the gun back up with a sigh, she turned the lights off and returned to the bedroom, locking the door behind her by sheer force of habit. She shoved the gun back into the drawer and sat on the bed. It was 5:32 by the clock on the nightstand, too late to try and go back to sleep. After this latest scare, she doubted she'd be able to anyway.

She took the book out and stared at the glossy, dog-eared cover: A shirtless hunk held a busty blonde in an old fashioned yellow dress at a dip like the lead in a suggestive tango while, in the background, flames engulfed a city skyline. She opened it to her spot, marked by a scrap of paper, and tried to read, but the dream kept straining at the borders of her consciousness like a prowler seeking ingress. She couldn't remember what it was about, only that in it, Norman hurt her again. She focused on the story.

The dashing Confederate Colonel wooed the prostitute heroine with eloquent declarations of love delivered in a saccharine Southern accent. They were in a room at a bordello in Atlanta, candlelight flickering across the walls and, presumably, crickets serenading the night without. Maya called up a vision of his face, and instead of the mustachioed Georgia aristocrat, she saw Norman. Her stomach lurched and she forced the image away.

She read on, but gave up after a page because even though she wasn't picturing her husband, Colonel Angus was beginning to remind her of him. She closed the book with a frustrated sigh and tossed it onto the nightstand; it slid across the surface and dropped onto the floor, but she didn't care. If she tried to go on, she'd see more and more of Norman in him, and she would grow to hate his guts just like she had with other fictional men. Too many of those paperback heartthrobs were like him: Handsome, charming, soft spoken, and passionate. The leading lady always fell hopelessly in love with them and they almost always wound up together in the end. Maya's heart swelled and she would think _I want that too, _but once she turned the last page, she started to wonder: What happens next? Where did the characters go from THE END? She met and married a man who was perfect, and her happily ever after turned into three years of terror.

Not every man is like Norman, she reminded herself, and she wanted to believe that so badly she ached. They might not be, but how many Normans _are _there? How many monsters wear the faces of princes? How many deceivers lure you in with good looks, tender kisses, and promises of love, only to isolate you, call you names, and hit you just for the sake of hitting you?

She liked to think not many, but she feared a lot.

When Norman came into her life five years ago, she was just out of college and teaching at an elementary school in Inglewood. She was young, naive, and filled with romantic ideals. She was going to help underprivileged kids succeed, she was going to save the world, and one day, she was going to marry the perfect man. Norman was everything she had ever dreamed of. Tall, tan, attractive, funny, kind, gentle, older (but not too much older) and just as concerned with the future as she was. At twenty-eight, he'd been a beat cop for seven years and had just become a homicide detective with the LAPD. They met at the Lynnwood Community Center on a bright Sunday afternoon in early May: She was teaching English to a group of children recently immigrated from South America and he was playing basketball with a gang of neighborhood boys in the gym. She bumped into him at the water fountain and he struck up a conversation. She was instantly attracted to him. Looking back later, it was mainly his smile: Wide, boyish, and warm, it lit up his entire face, and in minutes, she was smitten.

They dated for six months. They went to the beach, Griffith Park Observatory, the zoo, camping in the Angeles National Forest. He was fun, loving, and when she was with him, she felt safe, and all the worries of life drained away. A month in, she gave him her virginity, After two, she was hopeless in love, and in five, she wanted to spend the rest of her with him. When he proposed six months in over a candlelit dinner, her heart soared and happiness bubbled in her like fizz in a soda. They were married three months later in the kind of storybook wedding that every little girl dreams about. She moved into his apartment, and from there, they planned to buy a house in the suburbs and have children.

Then his dark side came out. It started small, tiny acts of jealousy that should have set off alarm bells. He called her dozens of times throughout the day to "check in" on her, and when she got home, he demanded she turn over her phone so he could "make sure" she wasn't talking to other men. Every once in a while, she stayed late at work to help with the after school programs, and Norman would grill her as though she were doing something wrong. Once, she caught him creeping past the school in his Crown Vic, and another time, he was waiting at her car when she got off. Eventually, he set a curfew: She was to be home before six, and if she wasn't, he would be "Very upset."

Soon after they were married, their sex life changed as well. He became rougher, more dominant. He introduced handcuffs and ball gags, and even though she didn't like them, she went along with it to please him. Four months after the wedding, he asked if he could choke her, and she let him, and the unpleasant sensation of strangling, lungs bursting and vision graying, shook her so badly she vowed to never let him do it again.

The next time he asked, she told him no, and he was disappointed. The time after that, he was angry, and the time after _that_, he didn't bother asking.

It was three weeks before their first anniversary when he first put his hands on her. They were arguing because Elena wanted to take her out for drinks and Norman wouldn't allow it. She called him an asshole, and he exploded; he grabbed her and threw her into the wall as hard as he could, knocking the wind from her lungs and driving her to the ground. He stood over her, shaking and scarlet with rage, and she had never been more terrified in her life. She broke down sobbing, and he came to his senses, kneeling, putting his arm around her, and apologizing profusely. Being shoved and losing her balance wasn't what hurt, what hurt was that _he _was the one who did it, the man she loved and cherished, the man who was supposed to love and cherish her. She didn't understand why he didn't trust her, why he was always so angry, and that made the pain even worse. She didn't speak to him for two long, agonizing days, and in that time, she realized that somehow, it was _her _fault.

Eventually, she forgave him because she loved him, and love can lead a woman off a cliff if she isn't careful. He promised it would never happen again, only it did, and it got _worse_. He beat her, slapped her, pulled her hair, and threatened to kill her every single day. She stayed, at first, because she loved him, then because she feared him.

For a long time, she held onto the hope that it really was her fault, because she could fix herself, she could improve and make him happy. Late last year, she became pregnant, and the old, overwhelming happiness she knew in the beginning came roaring back. Norman, too, was happy, and for a little while, it was like old times. When he held her and said he loved her, she did not question it, and all of the transgressions of the past three years were willingly forgotten.

She was three months along when it happened.

They got into an argument.

It ended when he punched her in the stomach.

And so, too, did her pregnancy.

Norman was cold about their baby's death. When she forgot herself and raised her voice to him, he snatched her by the hair. _Be thankful it wasn't you, _he hissed through his teeth, _next time, it will be_.

Looking into his hate-filled eyes, she knew he meant it.

A loud, shrill cry wrenched her from her thoughts with a startled exclamation.

Just the alarm.

She slapped the OFF button, drew a shaky breath, and brushed her hair out of her eyes. Getting up, she went into the bathroom, showered, then dressed for the day in a red skirt and a pink blouse. Her stomach turned at the idea of food, but she made herself a pot of coffee and sipped it at the dining room table. At 6:45, she slung her purse over her shoulder and left the house. Tepid orange light colored the western sky and the ground was crusted with an early frost. A bitter wind cut through her, and she hurried to the car.

Behind the wheel, she tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and waited for the windshield to defrost. She drove to Royal County Middle in silence, her hands at ten and two. She glanced often in the rearview mirror, knowing there was no one in her back seat but unable to stop herself. She reached the school in fifteen minutes and parked in the employee lot flanking the building's western wall. A few early students arriving ahead of the rush hurried up the walkway and through the main doors, and she watched them with an inexplicable beat of apprehension. She grabbed her purse, got out, and went in the side door. A long tiled hallway lined with red painted lockers lead to a T-shaped junction. The teacher's break room was on the other side, down from the library. Mr. Hutchens the health teacher and Mrs. Peabody the librarian talked over coffee, and Mr. Sherman, the head custodian, tinkered with the microwave, which had been out of commission for some time.

Turning right, she went to her classroom, turned on the lights, and crossed to the desk. She took her purse off, stowed it in one of the drawers, and sat.

Now, she thought, to get through the day.

Acid gurgled in her stomach.

Hopefully.

* * *

"You're wrong, dude," Rusty Spokes whined, "Captain Man would totally kick Thunderman's ass in a fight."

They were clustered around one of the many tables dotting the cafeteria, Clyde and Lincoln sitting side-by-side and Rusty and Poppa Wheelie facing them. Poppa, fourteen and already pushing 250, was bent over his Nintendo DS, sweat coating his fat face and lank brown hair hanging in his eyes. Rusty, tall and scrawny with fiery red hair and freckles, regarded Clyde with the impassioned outrage of a triggered SJW. Lincoln took a drink from his milk carton and returned to the letter laid out before him. His tight script, too blocky and childish for the matter at hand, filled the page, words and whole lines crossed out here and there.

"I dunno," Clyde said, "all Captain Man has is instructability. You can still stun him."

He'd been working on it all morning, drafting one after another and splicing them together in order to form a more perfect union. He ignored his work because, frankly, this was more important, and only broke twice, one to use the can in math class and once to write a poem in history as he stared upon Ms. DiMartino's ethereal beauty.

_Hair like midnight tides_

_Eyes sparkling gems_

_In them, my heart abides_

Gag, right? He tore it up after a few more stanzas and threw it in the trash. He was a little impressed by its quality, but the raw and untempered emotions unsettled him. God, if anyone were to read it over his shoulder, they'd think he was the world's biggest namby-pamby. Better destroy the evidence and pretend it didn't happen...like the Holocaust. J/k, it really did happen, but, hey, you either laugh or you cry, and the frustration of trying to pour your heart out in an eloquent and coherent manner for a much older woman you barely know had him _this _close to going full Lily.

Rusty shrugged one dismissive shoulder. "So? You literally can't stop him. If he decides he's coming after you, he comes."

"Just like he does for Kid Danger," Poppa Wheelie snorted.

"No he doesn't!" Rusty cried, appalled.

Poppa smirked to himself. You ever come across a troll online? Poppa Wheelie was like that, only in real life. He'd say anything to piss you off and derail a conversation, even if it went against his personal beliefs. For instance, he was Jewish...so Jewish he went to Temple every week and actively believed in Jew-God, but he once told a group of kids _Hitler did nothing wrong, _then snapped off a crisp Nazi salute. He was to Rusty what Clyde was to Lincoln, only with more taunting. "Yeah, he does," he said. "How do you think Kid Danger got that job in the first place?" He held his fist to his lips and prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue to simiulate fillatio.

"He went in for an interview!" Rusty said and threw up his hands. He and Poppa Wheelie had been hanging out for years, yet he still took the bait every time.

Picking up the thread, Clyde grinned. "I dunno, it's kind of funny. What kind of man hangs out with a teenage boy?"

Rusty's face flushed with anger. Lincoln and his friends were geeks, no use sugarcoating it, but the redhead was the worst of the bunch. He was one of those fans who has an iron clad opinion on everything, and he will defend his position until you either walk away or knock him out. "He's Captain Man's sidekick, that's all."

"Yeah, but he specifically wanted a young boy," Poppa Wheelie pointed out. "Why not get someone his own age?"

"He needed someone who'd fit in the costume!"

Clyde chuckled. "Likely story."

"You gotta fit in the skimpy fetish gear, kid," Poppa mocked.

"At his interview, Captain Man gave him a pudding pop and he woke up three hours later disoriented and wondering why his butt hole hurt."

Clyde and Poppa laughed uproariously, and having had enough, Rusty jumped to his feet and rage quit with an idignant, and wounded, "Fuck you guys."

With him gone, Clyde and Poppa settled down, and Lincoln was able to focus on his missive once more. He read what he had, his lips moving soundlessly, and bared his teeth as if in pain. Was it good enough?

Ha, trick question, no, it wasn't and never would be. That wasn't the hot issue here, though. Did it get his point across? He had no chance of winning Ms. DiMartino over, so the main goal here was to order and purge those pesky feelings.

In that respect, then yeah, mission accomplished. It wasn't pretty, though. Like, he was going for John Keats and wound up with 'beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot.'

_Dear Ms DeMartino;_

_Every time I look at you, the world stops for a minute and I catch my breath. Your dark eyes make me weak and the sound of your voice is the most enchanting melody. You make my stomach flutter and my heart race. After I see you, I can't get you off my mind for days and I wonder what it would be like to have a girlfriend as beautiful as you. The first time I ever saw you, you looked nervous, and I wanted to hug you and tell you it's okay. I know you're too old for me but I really like you and…_

He tapped his pencil against the table. How should he end it? _I really like you and..._and what? If she was a regular girl, he'd…

Before he could stop himself, he wrote _...will you be my girlfriend? _

The surreality of asking that...of a grown woman...made his head spin. That was his truest intention, wasn't it? If he could wave a magic wand, wouldn't he make her his girlfriend?

He pursed his lips and thought for a second. Yes. He'd make Ms. DiMartino his girlfriend. They'd talk, hold hands, go places together, and when they got back to his place…

Probably get busted by his parents.

Bending over the page, he touched pencil to page and started to write his name, but his hand froze, heart pounding faster.

Maybe he shouldn't.

Maybe leaving it unsigned would be best. That way he could watch her and try to judge her reaction. If she came into class looking disturbed after reading it, then, hey, guess I dodged a bullet. If she didn't then he could write another one or something.

Some outside force lifted his gaze, and there, standing in line for a tray, was Ms. DiMartino herself, chest out, back slightly arched. His eyes crawled over her bare, silky legs and the curve of her breast. He imagined running his hands slowly up her flanks, making her shudder with anticipation, and his loins stirred. It was hot in the building, and at some point she undid the top two buttons of her blouse, exposing the dark and mysterious crevice of her chest. Lincoln's stomach closed in a vise of desire as he pictured himself undoing the rest, then grazing his hands over her naked skin. She sighed, tilted her head back, and leaned into his touch, giving him better access. Her thighs rubbed gently together with a rustle of fabric, and her panties slid down to her knees as if guided by phantom hands.

A shuddery breath burst from his throat and he realized that he was openly staring, so hard his bulge pulsed hotly in the confines of his underwear. He swallowed and turned back to the note.

Like a sign from God, the bell rang, and making up his mind, Lincoln signed his name to the letter, then got to his feet. He tucked the letter into his pocket, bid Clyde and Poppa Wheelie farewell, and hurried out into the hall in front of everyone else.

He had to do this before he lost his nerve.

His next class was biology in Room 204 across from the gym. Instead of going right, he turned left and breezed past his locker, taking long strides and swinging his arms back and forth to propel him forward. Soon, the halls would be jammed with a glut of kids going to their next class and teachers rushing to their rooms. If he didn't rush, there would be too many witnesses and he would be forced to wait...whereupon he might lose his nerve.

Sunlight fell through the windows in the main lobby, bathing it in puddles of golden brilliance. The front office was to his right, a long counter standing between the public and the principal and vice principal's suites. An American flag on a stand flanked one side of the threshold and the Michigan state flag the other. Catercorner to it, a maze of honeycomb-like cubbies, each marked with a teacher's name, awaited incoming mail. Stealing a quick look around to make sure he was unobserved, Lincoln scurried over and looked for Mr. Kemper's name. The din of a thousand kids filled the hall like an onrushing tide, and Lincoln's heartbeat sped up. Where was it? Where was it?

When he found it, he jolted. Pulling the letter out of his pocket, feeling small and exposed, he shoved it in, then fled as fast as his legs would carry him. He did not look back, and no one called out to him or tried to stop him. He got to biology just ahead of the bell, and safe in his seat, the shakes set in.

Oh, God, did I really just do that? DID I JUST DO THAT?

Now he was having second thoughts. Maybe he shouldn't have...maybe he should have wrote the stupid thing, torn it up, and thrown it away.

And maybe...maybe he shouldn't have signed his stupid name.

He was on the verge of hyperventilating. Alright, alright...it's done, so you just have to live with the consequences. He took a series of deep breaths, then felt a big, stupid grin spread across his face despite himself.

Wow. I can't believe I did that. I'm either epic...or epically dumb.

At least he wasn't mediocre anymore; how many teenage boys actually hit on their teacher crush? Not damn many. We're the few, the proud, and the suspended.

Was she reading it right now? How was she reacting? Would he be called to the office? Would she accost him in the hall?

There was only one way to find out.

And that was wait.

Gulp.

* * *

At the end of the day, Maya DiMartino leaned back in her chair, pressed her hand to her temple, and winced. A tension headache wrapped around her head and sent sickly waves of nausea crashing through her stomach. Her sore, grainy eyes stung monstrously, and her skin was flushed as if with fever. She stared down at the side-by-side stacks of papers on the desk, one graded and the other not. The latter pile was much thicker than the former, and she let out a weary groan. The prospect of continuing exhausted her, but she had to have all of them done by tomorrow.

It was closing in on five'o'clock and the sunlight had weakened to a cool red that drenched the world like blood. She could always finish them at home; she was bound to revive after dinner, a hot bath, and changing into comfortable clothes. The idea of sitting alone in her little bungalow, however, with nothing to keep her company but the ticking Felix clock in the kitchen, unsettled her.

Despite her fear of men...and even women sometimes...she didn't like to be by herself. There is nothing, she thought, worse than being completely and utterly alone. Human beings were made, and evolved, to be social, to laugh freely, love lots, and share in fellowship with one another. Denying them that is like denying them oxygen, and they start to suffocate.

Just like her.

Elena was the only family she had and the only person she unquestionably trusted, but she lived a half an hour away in Detroit.

Maybe she should go out this weekend.

A fist of dread clutched her middle, and she quickly decided against it...with just a hint of loss. Since moving to Royal Woods last spring, she had lived as a virtual shut-in, closed off from the rest of the world. Every so often, the crashing silence and gnawing loneliness became too much to bear, and she would consider going to a bar or joining a club, anything to meet new people. As a woman, she especially craved the love of a man, but men scared her. How could that be? How could someone alternately want something and be so afraid of it that the very thought of having it made them sick? She dreamed of being swept into the strong, protecting embrace of a man like the ones in the books she read, but if she dreamed too long, the rose colored veneer rubbed off, and the gentle arms she imagined herself cradled in became harder, colder, tighter, cutting off her air supply. Panic seized her, and the dream turned into a nightmare.

Just as it had in real life.

Though most of the teachers and students had gone for the day, there were still a few late stragglers here and there. Mrs. Desmond, the head secretary, passed by on her way to the breakroom a few minutes ago, and the janitor was making his rounds; Maya hadn't seen him, but she heard his wheeled trash barrel thunking on the floor, and knowing that he, and the others, were near made her feel less lonely.

Her fatigue and desire to be home outweighed her desire to not be alone, and she collected her papers and shoved them into a folder. Tucking it up under her arm, she took the purse out of the desk, slung it over her shoulder, and got to her feet. She cut the light, went into the hall, and pulled the door closed behind her; it clicked into place, and the sound echoed with grim finality. She started toward the exit leading to the parking lot, then remembered something and changed course. Her heels clicked on the tiles and somewhere, a door slammed, startling her. In the lobby, she went to the rows of mailboxes, found the one marked J. KEMPER, and reached in. It was empty save for a folded sheet of loose leaf paper and an envelope. On her way, she checked both. The envelope was for Mr. Kemper, and the paper was headed with her name, the scrawl clearly that of a student. She returned to the room, dropped the former on a plastic tray marked INBOX, and tucked the latter into her purse. She'd read it later.

Outside, the needling wind sliced through her and fluttered her hair around her face. Hunching against the cold, she power walked to the car, opened the door, and slid in behind the wheel. She started the engine, found a radio station playing music, and threw the car into reverse. She swung right, navigated to the exit, and waited for a line of cars to pass before turning left. Most of the light had filtered from the sky and purple dusk flooded the land; she turned the headlights on and reduced her speed.

Before going home, she stopped at the supermarket. The overhead lights burned her eyes and the deep chill in the freezer section made her shiver. She scanned the coolers for something to make for that night's dinner before settling on a Lean Cuisine meal for one: Braised beef and russet potatoes with a "cranberry dessert." From the picture on the box, she inferred it was a cobbler, but wouldn't know until she went to eat it.

At least I have a surprise to look forward to.

The corners of her mouth twitched up in a joyless smile.

At home, she parked in the driveway and sat in the car, looking at the house. It took her a moment to realize what she was doing: Looking for danger...like the timid mouse she was.

Self-loathing welled within her, and she pushed it back down.

_Stop being stupid. Norman's not in there. He's in L.A. He probably has another woman and forget you ever existed. _

Part of her hoped he did, and part of her hoped he hadn't found another woman; the possibility of someone else going through what she did turned her stomach.

Getting a hold of herself, she carried the groceries inside and sat them on the kitchen counter, then went back to the door and locked it. She kicked out of her heels, freeing her tired feet, and returned to the kitchen. She put everything away but the meal, which she popped in the microwave. She set the timer for seven minutes, then took her purse and folder into the living room. She sat on the sofa, dropped the folder on the coffee table, and followed it with her purse. At the last second, her elbow cracked, and the purse landed short, hitting the edge of the table and dumping its contents onto the floor.

She blew a frustrated sigh and bent over to pick everything up, but stopped when her eyes fell on the note. She forgot all about it and felt a twinge of guilt; she was so caught up in herself that she didn't even stop to give it the least bit of consideration. If a student puts a letter in your personal inbox, chances are it was over something serious, like being bullied.

Picking it up, she sat back against the couch and unfolded it. Cramped, sloppy script covered three quarters of the page, the lines thick and dark as though the writer had taken great pains to write neatly but largely failed. Words and sentences were crossed out here and there, and she squinted her eyes like a woman staring into the harsh glare of the setting sun, reading carefully, the crease of her brow deepening.

_Dear Ms DeMartino;_

_Every time I look at you, the world stops for a minute and I catch my breath. Your dark eyes make me weak and the sound of your voice is the most enchanting melody. You make my stomach flutter and my heart race. After I see you, I can't get you off my mind for days and I wonder what it would be like to have a girlfriend as beautiful as you. The first time I ever saw you, you looked nervous, and I wanted to hug you and tell you it's okay. I know you're too old for me but I really like you and will you be my girlfriend?_

She realized she was literally gaping, and snapped her mouth closed with an audible click. She read it again, sure she must have misunderstood, and blinked rapidly when she realized she hadn't. The words remained as they'd been written, and she shook her head.

Well...this is certainly...interesting. She was fully aware that most boys she taught, even at the elementary level, were attracted to her, but she never thought one would be so bold as to actually tell her. In an effort to connect with her students, she always compared them to herself when she was their age, and though she had many crushes on teachers, she would never have worked up the courage to approach one. In college, maybe (there _was _a handsome professor she liked), but not middle school. She recalled having a crush on her math teacher, Mr. Davis, when she was in seventh grade. She'd stare at him in class and spend the rest of the day hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the hall. She'd die of embarrassment before telling him, though.

Whoever wrote this was a brave boy, and she couldn't deny she was impressed.

And a little unsettled.

A name was written across the bottom.

Lincoln.

Given her state, her mind blanked. Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln. A memory dislodged from one of her brain's anterior walls like a clot, and a face filled her vision: White hair, freckles, delicate features, big brown eyes. She went back to the previous afternoon, Lincoln stammering and rubbing the back of his neck as he fumbled his way through an attempt at small talk. He blushed and shook like the schoolboy he was, and while it was _very _cute...she couldn't help the icy and inexplicable dread in the pit of her stomach. Her gaze darted nervously to the front door, as though she expected him to crash through and hurt her, and her heart twisted like a wet dish rag.

The spine tingling sensation of being watched came over her, and she had the strangest feeling of being exposed, like a soldier in the open.

A loud, high pitched cry shattered the silence, and she jumped.

Just the microwave.

She let out a hitching breath and sat the letter aside, hands trembling. A queer and contradictory mix of emotions swirled in her chest, and she tried but failed to name them. She was flattered but disturbed...perhaps more than she had any right to be. A teenage boy with a crush wrote her a letter. It wasn't appropriate, but, in a way, sweet. Very sweet. Knowing that someone, anyone, was interested in her enough to do that, however, left her feeling like a woman in the crosshairs of a sniper.

How should she handle this? A student asking you to be his girlfriend - which was so childish a way to put it that she smiled to herself - wasn't something they covered in any of her teaching classes. Her first instinct was to ignore it and act as though nothing had happened, but she should probably talk to him and tell him -

_Please leave me alone._

\- that what he did was wrong, and to caution him not to do anything similar in the future. Other teachers might not be as understanding.

She would worry about that later, right now, her dinner was ready, then, afterward, she needed a bath and to finish grading these papers.

Picking up the rest of the debris from the floor and putting it back in her purse, she got up and went into the kitchen.

All that evening, she tried to relax, then to concentrate on her work, but there was one thing on her mind and one thing only.

Lincoln.

* * *

At 5:35 WST, Detective Norman Derringer and his partner, Troy Evans, met with Captain Stone in his spacious office off the squad room. A tall, severe man with graying hair and shoulders so broad they you needed two buses and a taxi to get from one to the other, Stone sat behind his cluttered desk like a statue, ramrod straight and glaring sourly like the two men before him just fucked his wife and blew his pension. Framed photos and citations dotted the forest green walls and tiny fish darted back and forth in an aquarium on a side table. He treated those stupid things better than he did his men, and every time Derringer was in here, he had to resist the urge to reach in, grab one, and crush it in his fist, then jam it down the bastard's throat.

"What do we got?" Stone asked.

Derringer slapped a folder on the desk. "Every registered sex offender in the L.A. area," he said, "I marked the ones whose crimes were violent. There're five guys on there who stand out."

Reaching across the table, Stone picked the folder up and leafed curiously through it. "What about the DMV?"

A Crenshaw bum and crackhead named Darius White claimed to have seen a white van racing away from the scene of the latest murder...that anyone knew about. The vic's name was Lucinda Martainez, a thirty-three year old pussy peddler from East Los with a rap sheet for hooking, solicitation, and possession of heroin. White was easy to manipulate. There was, indeed, a white van around at some point before or after Derringer dumped the body, but it wasn't speeding. All Derringer had to do was plant the seed and coax him along a little. _You sure it wasn't speeding? You sure? _He wasn't. His brain was so polluted he was barely sure of his own name. "That's in there too."

It took Derringer three hours to compile a list of every white van in the area, but that was a small price to pay to keep the heat off of him.

Stone slipped out a sheet of paper and scanned it. "You think one of these five perps might be our guy?"

"It's possible," Derringer said.

The Captain nodded curtly. "Bring 'em in. I want this asshole off the street as soon as possible. Mayor Stevens is camped on my ass and I'm sick of it. I'm this close to appointing a task force, but the goddamn paperwork makes me wanna shoot myself."

Every time a serial killer takes aim at Los Angeles, the public panics, the politicians get scared of losing votes, and media attacks the force for not moving quick enough. It was a vicious cycle that had repeated itself more times than anyone could count, and the predictability disgusted Derringer. People were so alike it was sickening.

Stone dismissed them, and they went out into the bull-pen, a big, tiled space crowded with desks, computers, ringing phones, and detectives shuffling papers in an effort to look busy. Cops are no different than anyone else: Stupid, easily duped, and fake. Derringer hated them just as much as he hated the scum they stood against.

At their shared desk, Derringer sat behind the computer and Evans dropped into a straight back chair facing him. "Think he's gonna do it again?"

Derringer leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. "Don't they always?"

"Nine times," Evans agreed.

Ten, Derringer thought to himself and grinned. Marcia Gomez was currently at the bottom of a ravine in the rugged hills north of the city...rather, what was left of her. Derringer cut her arms, legs, and head off with a hacksaw then took her out into the wilderness and burned her. Before leaving the house, he shoved a vacuum hose up her crotch and sucked out as much of his sperm as he could. Next, he took off her fingers and broke out her teeth to make identifying her harder. If anyone found her, they'd mistake her remains for the charred remnants of a campfire, and even if they did know what they were looking at, the M.E. sure as fuck wouldn't. Of all the morons in the department, he was the dumbest.

As of that afternoon, no one had reported her missing, but they wouldn't. The only people she hung out with were johns and other working girls, and even they're not stupid enough to run to the cops when someone goes ghost. He didn't have to worry too much, they didn't suspect him and never would.

Evans left for the day and Derringer stayed behind to "keep at it." Instead, he made himself a cup of coffee in the break room and drank it while scrolling through pictures of Maya on his phone, alternating between rage, loss, and disdain. He still wanted her, and that pissed him off. He tried to forget her, tried to move on, but the skuzzy little bitch had her claws in _deep_. He dreamed about her every night, and when he woke, he could feel her throat under his hands, soft and fragile, one swift crack away from going cold. When he wasn't working, he stared at pictures of her, touched the things she left behind, thought about her, hated her...and loved her too.

Right this very minute, she was out there in the world, fucking another man and laughing at him, mocking the anguish she put him through. When he married her, he thought she was different, but she wasn't, she was the same as every other bitch under the sun: Selfish, willful, disobedient, a real feminist too fucking uppity for her own good. He thought he beat it out of her, remade her the way a woman ought to be, but he was wrong.

Now he was seething again. Even after all this time, she was still hurting him, still tormenting his soul. Just the knowledge that he couldn't have her...couldn't have what he wanted and what was rightfully his...made his vision blur.

If he wasn't careful, he'd need another girl.

The first was an accident. He picked her up on a corner and drove her home for sex. She agreed to let him cuff her to the bed and everything was fine, but once he was on top of her, thrusting and staring down at her face, he started thinking of Maya, remembering all the times he did this to her, remembered how good she felt and how she left him. Her husband. Her lawfully wedded fucking husband.

Killing the hooker wasn't a conscious decision, his anger took over and it happened. He choked her and went faster, hoping vaguely to ruin her treasonous cunt and shatter her pelvis. When he finally came and calmed down, she was limp and purple. The heady rush of power surged through him, and his every nerve ending crackled with it. He burned that one in the hills too (making his kill count eleven, he realized), and for a long time, he was sated. Then, gradually, thoughts of Maya crept back in, and after a week of torture, he went looking for another one, driving back and forth through Compton and Watts like a shark circling dark waters in search of prey. He didn't fuck that one, he just killed her.

In the beginning, he only took one when every couple weeks, and they kept him satisfied. Now, they came every couple days, and barely took the edge off. His greatest fear was coming to pass: He was losing control.

Taking a deep breath, he got up, sat the mug in the sink, and went back into the squad room. It was night now and darkness pressed against the windows overlooking San Clemente Street. Bugs danced around the orange globe of an arch sodium streetlight and Derringer smiled sardonically at their slavish devotion to the glow. That was him with Maya, trapped in her thrall and unable to escape.

Oh, but he would. There was one way to save himself and to quell the dark desire in his heart.

He sat at his desk, faced the computer, and navigated out of the California Department of Motor Vehicles registry. He typed in his pass code in, and accessed the National Criminal Records Database. A search bar appeared onscreen, and he typed in DERRINGER, MAYA. Two results popped up, both speeding tickets from before he met her. He checked her address, on the off chance it was updated in the system, and sneered.

His. The same as it had always been. Wherever she was, she was flying under the radar.

Next, he typed in DIMARTINO, ELENA. Just seeing her name brought a flush of anger to his cheeks. She was the one who convinced Maya to leave him. He _knew _she was trouble, which is why he forbid Maya to see her.

Elena's file appeared, and when Derringer saw a new addition, his heart sputtered.

A speeding ticket.

From yesterday.

In Detroit.

Suddenly invigorated, Derringer sat forward and clicked the REPORT tab next to her name. Lines of text flashed across the screen and stopped. He looked for her social security number, found it, and stiffened.

They matched.

It was her.

He scanned the screen, found the address line, and read it three times, so excited by his good fortune that he mind refused to retain it. 623 State Street, Apt 3C, Detroit, Michigan, 48203.

A cold, reptilian smile slashed across Norman Derringer's face.

_Got'cha._


	4. Way Too Far

At 6:30 the next morning, Lincoln woke to the alarm, turned it off, and sat up, clad only in his underwear. He scratched the small of his back, yawned, and smacked his lips. Another day, another nickel, as Spongebob would say. At least he made a salary, what did Lincoln make? Unless he went looking for loose change on the ground and in the couch, nothing, he made nothing. Dad threw him five bucks a month for allowance, but those were joke wages. He was always low on funds and never had what he wanted. Oh, _Steal That Car: Wellington _just dropped? Too bad, kid. _The Lord of the Rangs: Return of the Kang _is in theaters? Enjoy not watching it. He seriously had to save for six months just to eat at McDonald's. It was dumb.

The fog in his brain evaporated, and his stomach churned at the memory of what he did yesterday.

Oh, right...the letter.

The previous afternoon, he poured his heart out in a note to Ms. DiMartino and asked her to be his girlfriend. Obviously, she wouldn't, but…

Aw, man, what was I thinking? He buried his fevered face in his hands and metaphorically kicked himself. This is what happens when a man's passions get the better of him: He does something spectacularly stupid, then lives to regret it. His line of reasoning was "better out than in" (didn't Shrek say that? Or was it the Grinch? Someone green…). Once he cleared the air, he'd feel better. Only he didn't. If anything, he felt even worse. All yesterday evening, Ms. DiMartino ran through his end on an endless loop, and the fluttering in his middle got so bad he thought he was going to puke.

Now, it was time to pay the piper. In an hour, maybe less, he'd be at school, and something would happen. Suspension, expulsion, or a third option, he didn't know and now that he thought about it, he dreaded it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You should have kept your chipped-tooth mouth shut.

Too late now. Ms. DiMartino probably already read his letter and knew everything. If she was as kind as he thought, she wouldn't report him to Principal Rhodes. If he was sorely mistaken and she wasn't kind, he'd be in for a world of hurt. She might even press charges on him and file a restraining order.

He didn't think she'd do all that. She was nice and good and beautiful and ugh, seriously why couldn't he stop thinking about her? It was hell. Yesterday he said keeping his emotions bottled up inside was like being constipated, but that wasn't quite right, since he still felt that way even now. It was like being gripped in a vise slowly closing, closing, crushing him between its arms. He didn't like it.

At all.

Getting to his feet, he went out into the hall. A crack of light shone under the bathroom door, and he waited. Ten minutes later, Lynn came out in a puff of steam, dressed in red basketball shorts and a red and white jersey. "All yours, Stinkcoln," she said as she passed.

That probably meant there was no hot water.

Sure enough, the water was lukewarm and turned ice cold two minutes in. You'd think Dad would spring for a bigger hot water heater but you'd be wrong, the guy was Cheap with a capital C. Cutting the spray, Lincoln dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and returned to his room. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a black Smooch band T Luna handed down to him. _This shirt's rad, bro, take good care of her. _Maybe he was imagining things but it smelled like pot. He slathered his armpits with deodorant, pulled his socks and shoes on, and put his things in his backpack. All the while, his stomach rumbled sickly and his heart pulsed spasmodically. His head felt full and heavy, and it took Herculean effort to keep his thoughts from turning to Ms. DiMartino. What was her first name? He realized he didn't know, and his chest constrained.

He really wanted to know...wanted to roll it over his lips and savor it like wine.

Shifting gears, he went downstairs, made a bowl of cereal, and ate it while staring into space and fighting to keep from thinking of Ms. DiMartino. Lana came in just as he was finishing up and made her own cereal. Lola, Lucy, and Lisa came next, followed by Luan. Lincoln was surprised she hadn't left yet, but once he really looked at her, he understood: Clad in a rumpled pink robe and slippers, shoulders slumped as if under an invisible load, she was pale, sweaty, and, to be crude, looked like shit.

"What's wrong with _you?" _he asked warily. Though the Loud house wasn't as crowded as it once was, sickness still spread like crazy. God, if she was showing _now_, she was probably incubating for a couple days, making containment a moot point.

She grunted something about _sniffles _and shuffled into the kitchen.

When she came back a few minutes later with a glass of orange juice, he got up, put his bowl in the sink, and high-tailed it out of there. Sorry, Lu', miss me with that. While he waited for Lisa, Lucy, Lana, and Lola, he scrolled through Facebook. Someone posted a link to a news story about a serial killer in California (**L.A. RIPPER: 9 DEATHS AND COUNTING) **and Lincoln considered following it, but kept going. You don't hear much about serial killers these days. It's like they're all extinct or something. He heard somewhere that the news doesn't cover them much anymore to deny them publicity. That was probably bull since they covered mass shooters and terrorists every second of every day. _Guy shot two people at a high school in Burlington, West Virginia? Stop the presses, we're going with this for the next two weeks. _

Lola came in from the dining room in a white blouse and plaid skirt that made her look like a private school snob, put on her jacket, and hefted her book bag onto the end table. She rifled through it and frowned, but didn't say anything. Lisa, Lana, and Lucy drifted in one-by-one, and they were off to the races.

It was cold and blustery today, the sky as deathly white as Luan's face, and the smell of burning leaves seasoned the air. Autumnal decorations - pumpkins, hay, scarecrows - decorated the houses up and down Franklin and Lincoln favored them with hollow apathy, his mind already at Royal County Middle with that angelic creature calling itself Ms. DiMartino. Lola complained about the weather and her homework to Lana, who took it with a hangdog look suggesting indifference. Lucy walked with her head bent over a notebook, reading one of her poems back to herself at a mutter. He remembered the poem he wrote Ms. DiMartino and cringed. Maybe, if he worked long and hard, he'd be good enough for FanFiction net, but he'd never be good enough to write a poem for Ms. DiMartino. She, herself, was poetry: Light, warm, and beautiful, and when she moved, her body swayed with hypnotic rhythm.

At the elementary school, he saw his sisters off with a half-hearted farewell and walked the rest of the way, his suspense steadily rising until he bubbled with it like a tea kettle on a burner. He paused on the concrete breezeway fronting the main entrance, splitting the flow of kids around him like Moses parting the Red Sea, and took a second to collect himself. Alright, Linc, you'll be fine. She's not going to get you in trouble and demand your head, she's not one of those #MeToo Nazis. At best, she'll think you're a weirdo and possibly a pervert.

Oh, well, because that was _sooo _much better.

Compared to juvie, Linc? Yes, it is.

Someone bumped into him from behind and he stumbled forward. "Move it or lose it," Girl Jordan tossed over her shoulder.

Long ago (like, two years) Lincoln had a crush on Girl Jordan, but he got over it pretty quickly when she hit puberty and turned into a bitch. It was funny, as soon as those hormones started pumping, her personality changed. She went from a real bro to a real pain in the neck almost overnight. He'd be all angsty and agonize over it - _why doesn't she like me anymore? _\- but she was like that to everyone. She called Poppa Wheelie a dicky do _('because your stomach sticks out farther than your dick does') _and straight shoved Clyde into a locker and threatened to beat him up for accidentally coughing on her.

She was the complete opposite of Ms. DiMartino. The last time she subbed, a kid got sick in class and threw up. If Jordan was the teacher, she would have kicked his ass and suspended him, but Ms. DiMartino put her arm around him, felt his forehead, and walked him to the nurses' office with a look of motherly concern on her face that made Lincoln's heartbeat accelerate.

Someone else bumped into him and he nearly fell to his knees. Alright, time to stop impeding traffic. Ducking his head, he went inside and hurried to his locker, one eye sweeping the hall for Ms. DiMartino. He didn't see her, but on the upside, he had her class first, so he wouldn't have to sit around waiting for the hammer to drop; if it was coming, it was coming right about -

The bell rang.

-now.

He took his history book from his locker, slammed the door, and faltered. From here, he could see flashes of Ms. DiMartino's classroom between the kids streaming past, and his bowels turned to ice water.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and his soul left his body.

"You alright?" Clyde asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said quickly, "I'm fine, why? Do I look not fine?"

Clyde let his hand drop to his side. "You're really spacy. I said your name three times and you just stood there."

Did he?

"I'm fine," Lincoln said, "just...tests. I got tests on my mind."

Clyde fixed him with a skeptical look, but let it go. "Okay then," he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, "I'll see you later."

Lincoln nodded and turned back to the room, his feet refusing his brain's command to move. Okay, Linc, let's get this over with.

He lowered his head and went to class.

* * *

Maya DiMartino did not dream, at least that she could remember, and came awake shortly before her alarm was set to go off. Cold November moonlight bathed the room silver and shadows nested in the corners like bad memories left to fester. The first thought to enter her mind was of Lincoln and his letter, and the same odd mix of emotions from the night before returned. _Your dark eyes make me weak, _he wrote, _and the sound of your voice is the most enchanting melody._

She kept arriving at that same line again and again, unsure if the racing of her heart was apprehension or something else. Last night, sitting on the couch with her legs crossed and the ungraded tests stacked in her lamp, she went back to his words repeatedly, a knot of sensation in her stomach expanding and contracting like the pulse of an unhealthy heart. When she realized she was lingering over them a little _too _much, she shook her head and redoubled her focus. His letter was _very _sweet and had it come from a man her own age, it might have made her melt, but thinking about it felt wrong, and blushing and fluttering over his poetic descriptions of her objectively _was _wrong.

Just as the ice pick of fear in the center of her stomach was wrong.

Halfway through the papers, she sat them aside, went into the bathroom, and filled the tub with hot water. She added soap and undressed while it bubbled up. She tossed her clothes in the hamper between the sink and the toilet and, naked, stepped into the tub and sat down. She cut the water, lathered her breasts and arms, and washed slowly, taking her time and willing her tense muscles to unwind.

If only Lincoln were a little older…

She caught herself and frowned. If he were older _what? _She would accept his advances? Her heart palpitated fearfully. No, she wasn't ready for a relationship right now, even a casual one. One day, yes, she did want to meet a man to fall in love with, but it would take a very long time, and she would be cautious, for as much as she wanted to be loved, held, and even made love to again, she didn't want to be hurt. The risk of Norman happening all over again just wasn't worth taking right now. Maybe after a few years, once the wounds had fully healed, surely no sooner.

Her timidity and distrust of men didn't preclude her from the occasional bout of loneliness. Every once in a blue moon, she felt the sharp, insistant call of nature, and her body smoldered with need. She never masturbated, though. The one time she tried to imagine herself with a man, he turned into Norman, lunatic smile and all, and she lost any desire to even think of sex for months. Those infrequent flights of passion were few and far between, but they still happened, and locked in the throes of heat, she wanted a man...not just for the act, but for everything else, from cuddling on the couch to leaving the toilet seat up.

Lincoln Loud was not a man, he was a boy, and that she kept thinking about his letter, feeling fluttery like a girl, disgusted and annoyed her. An image of his face came unbidden to her mind; his high cheekbones, sensuous lips, pert, upturned nose, and soft jawline were as unlike Norman's rugged features as you could get. There was also a purity in his eyes that put her irrationally in mind of freshly fallen snow. His hands, as best she could remember, were small and femmine with slender fingers, skin clear to the point of translucence. He was a wispy boy, and the more she pondered him, the less intimidating he became. Yesterday, he stumbled over his words when he tried to talk to her, and a smile of amusement played at the corners of her mouth.

Yes, he was a very cute boy, and kind to the other children as well. After being fooled by Norman, she would never put her faith completely into anyone without fully knowing them first, but Lincoln seemed nice. If he was genuine, he would make a lucky girl very happy one day.

She sighed heavily. Would anyone ever make _her _happy? Better yet, would she ever _let _someone make her happy? It had been eight months and the concept of dating still struck terror into her heart. It wasn't so much the fear of being physically hurt that gave her pause, it was the betrayal. That cut so much deeper than anything else. The black eyes she once had to cover with make-up and invent excuses for, the marks on her throat, the bloody noses...all of those things healed. She could study her face in the mirror for hours and find no signs of them no matter how closely she looked. The ones on the inside were still present, still seeping even after all this time. It hadn't even been a year, she reminded herself, but looking forward, she didn't know if she would ever be ready. She wanted to let someone in, but could she? She was so scared of being hurt again, or finding something beautiful only to watch helplessly as it slipped through her fingers. She wanted a husband, and she wanted a baby, like the one Norman took from her...but she was beginning to wonder if it was even worth it to try.

Maybe...maybe it would be best to just give up.

That thought followed her to bed, where she lay beneath the covers and stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing a mile a minute. Every time she closed her eyes, she would begin to think of Lincoln and scold herself. She was ashamed, but also intrigued. She had never felt a caustic mix of emotions such as this, and God help her, she wanted to explore them and find out where they lead.

There was something different about Lincoln, she mused, something that wasn't present in most other men, a nebulous quality that, upon looking deeper, put her mysteriously at ease. She wracked her brain for what it could be, and was still trying to figure it out when she dropped into a deep and restful sleep. Sitting now on the edge of the bed with her hands planted on either side of her and her head bowed, she tried and failed once more.

Why was she still thinking about him? Why was she thinking about any of this? Was she really so starved for love that a fourteen-year-old boy writing her a love letter could throw her being into chaos? Was she _that_ subconsciously desperate?

She didn't know, she just didn't, but, perversely, she felt...good, and on her way to the bathroom, there was an exuberant bounce in her step that colored the nape of her neck red with guilt. She liked it too much to chastise herself, though.

Stripping naked, she climbed into the tub and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it was just right.

Now, the major question.

What should she do?

Her options, as she saw them, were to either ignore the letter, or talk to Lincoln. Neither one sat well with her, however. It was such a sweet note that she couldn't bear to turn her nose up at it. He wrote it from the heart, and not acknowledging it, as though it were trash, would be cruel. Conversely, the idea of talking to him about...that...made her stomach tingle with girlish anxiety.

She took a deep breath. She needed to get a hold of herself. He was a child and even entertaining his letter - _will you be my girlfriend_ \- was over the line. She was an adult and she needed to start acting like it.

For that reason, she decided to meet the matter head on. She would talk to Lincoln, look him in the eye, and tell him that what he did was wrong.

She hated the way her knees shook, but she was committed; she was going to follow this course of action and she would not allow herself to back down. Doing so would empower and encourage her idle and harmless delight. It would serve as a testament to just how incongruously affected she was by Lincoln's letter. She was, but she was also a lonely and confused woman who'd just gotten out of an abusive marriage, she could forgive herself for being overly flattered by this, but she could not justify letting it govern her behavior.

Turning under the spray, she let the water pound against her back and ran her fingers through her hair. Maybe it was time to start dating after all. She was leery of going out and meeting men face to face, but she could make a profile on a website and see what was out there. Meeting strangers that way was only marginally less frightening than meeting them in person. You never know who's on the other end until you meet them, and by then it might be too late.

That was an excuse and she knew it, but knowing the shape and character of one's illness does nothing to treat it. The only way to really improve was to go on dates and show herself that most men were not like her husband. Norman had serious mental problems. He, and men like him, are like landmines buried on the battlefield of love. There weren't all that many but someone eventually has the misfortune of stepping on one. She was one of those unlucky few, but she survived, and as long as you have a life, you need to live it. Since leaving Norman, she hadn't been living. So was so lonely that she went to pieces over a teenage boy's awkward love letter, for God's sake. That wasn't normal and it wasn't acceptable. She had a problem and she needed to solve it.

By dating, and one day marrying.

A ripple of fear cut through her.

Soon, but not right now.

When she was finished, she toweled off and padded back into the bedroom. She dressed in a black skirt and a white blouse, then put on her pantyhose and heels. Back in the bathroom, she brushed her hair. Done, she looked in the mirror, paying more attention to her appearance than usual. Did she look nice? Deciding that she didn't, she applied eyeliner then red lipstick. She checked herself again and frowned. Why was she suddenly concerned with how she looked?

The answer niggled deep in the back of her mind, but she turned quickly away from it, loath to stare into its face.

She flicked the light switch off, got her purse from her room, and left without coffee; she'd get a cup from the gas station on the way.

On the porch, crisp air flowed through her hair like sensual hands and the woody tang of burning leaves found her nose. Birds making their way south flew through the piercing blue sky in a loose V-formation and dewy grass glistened in amber morning light. She locked the door behind her, crossed the yard, and climbed into the car, She adjusted the mirror, turned the key in the ignition, and reversed, slamming on the brakes when a boy on a bike zipped behind her. After waiting for a yellow school bus to pass, she backed into the street, hung a right, and followed it to Main. Brick and glass storefronts overlooked broad sidewalks and skinny trees blazed with color like torches lighting a deserted garden party.

Two blocks later, she pulled onto the Sunoco on the corner of Main and Elm, parked in a slot facing the big plate-glass window, and went inside.

An Indian in a turban stood behind the register, his stony face covered in a nappy black beard. Dry hotdogs and stale taquitos rotated on a roller and the slushie machine made a low humming noise. Maya's eyes darted suspiciously to the clerk then away. He looked mean, and it was all too easy to envision him beating his wife for an imaginary infraction.

She instantly didn't like him, but she wasn't frozen with fear the way she would have been eight months ago.

Progress.

She walked to the duel coffee pots, took a cup from a stack at her right hand, and filled it with regular. She added two containers of cream and two packets of sugar, then blended it with a plastic stirrer. Putting the lid on, she turned, and a hammer crashed into her chest: The Indian was watching her from the corner of his eye, a hateful sneer rippling across his lips. Suddenly, all that progress she had made was gone, and her heart crept fearfully into her throat as if to hide. He realized he was caught and flicked his gaze away, but Maya didn't move, her knees were locked, her muscles petrified.

It was nothing, she told herself, just an ill-tempered Arab. Forgive her for sounding racist, but they aren't exactly rare. He would take her money, give her change, and maybe grumble, but he wouldn't hit her, he wouldn't hurt her the way Norman had.

Taking a deep, resolute breath, she went to the counter and sat the coffee on, avoiding making eye contact with him. "Two dollars," he growled.

She dug two one dollar bills from her purse and laid them on the counter. He moved, and, heart slamming, she yanked her hand back so that he couldn't grab her wrist. He lifted a judgmental brow, then took the money, his guarded eyes never her, as though she were dangerous.

Snatching her coffee, she rushed out the door. She didn't relax until she was behind the wheel, the doors closed and locked and the light of day shining on her face. She was safe in public. Men like Norman don't show themselves there, they do it behind closed doors. They smile and charm you and leave you with the impression that they are wonderful people, and you never know that they just punched their pregnant wife into a miscarriage. That's one of the reasons she never told. No one would believe her, especially not the police. Everyone on the force knew and liked him. All he had to say was that she was lying, and they would accept it. They'd think he was being honest right up until he finally went too far and killed her.

But Norman wasn't here. She was 2,000 miles away, lost in the folds of Lady Liberty's dress, concealed and on her own. The only thing harassing her, the only thing controlling her, was her.

Inserting the key into the ignition, she drove the rest of the way to school. She was a block away when she remembered Lincoln, and her already knotted middle tied even more. She didn't know which scared her more right now: Lincoln Loud or Norman Derringer. She had no reason to fear Lincoln...but she did, she feared herself and her reaction to his letter, feared that she was so mixed up and turned around that she might actually pursue him. His face had become more and more pleasant every time it appeared before her, and the way it made her feel, the way his letter made her feel, grew stronger.

Wrong as it may be, she couldn't stop herself thinking along these lines, and she was alternately disgusted and excited. What was that trait about Lincoln, the one she couldn't name? She spent most of the night and a good chunk of the morning trying to define and label it, but she was no closer now than she was at midnight. Something formed in the back of her mind, but before she could examine it, she reached the school. Later.

No, not later, she admonished herself, you are to stop thinking like this right now.

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were wide and haunted, her expression tired. A strand of hair was out of place, and leaning forward, she licked her fingers and pressed it down. There. She looked nice.

For Lincoln.

Her face fell and a chilling wind blew through her soul.

No, it wasn't for Lincoln. It was for...herself. She was considering possibly dating again, so she had to look nice at all times. One never knows where they might meet the one.

Satisfied with that, she hurried inside before her reflection could contradict her.

At this hour, the halls stood empty, unpeopled save for the occasional teacher wandering to and from the break room. A smattering of early students filled the cafeteria, and as she waited in line for a tray, she looked worriedly around, but didn't see Lincoln, for which she was relieved. Food in hand, she sat at the designated teacher's table and ate with contrived leisure. The scrambled eggs were cold, the bacon brittle and burned, and the toast soggy, but she was so preoccupied that she barely noticed. She would see Lincoln first thing after class so as to get this out of the way as quickly as possible. The sooner it was over, the sooner she could put it behind her and move on.

It didn't quite work out that way.

In class, she sat behind the desk as the students filtered in and waited with bated breath for him to arrive. Her stomach rolled and her face burned, and every time she tried to lift her gaze, her neck muscles refused to bend. Just before the bell rang, he came in and went directly to his seat, head down, and Maya tensed. Blood crashed against her temples and eyes pulled in his direction as if by magnetism, but she wrenched them back.

When everyone was present, she consulted Mr. Kemper's lesson plan and had them open their books to chapter ten. Standing at the blackboard and explaining the myriad causes of the Civil War, she was so nervous she blushed and stumbled over her words. Her gaze returned to Lincoln no matter how harshly she reprimanded herself. He never looked up from his book, and she was both grateful and disappointed, disappointed because she wanted to look at his face, really look at it, and grateful because she knew she should not.

After a half hour, she assigned a test and pretended to grade papers, but furtively studied Lincoln instead. His snowy white hair made him stand out, and the first time she taught him, she wondered if he was albino. He was not, and her curiosity was piqued. Where did it come from? She never considered asking him about it, but maybe she would.

An image came to her, and her heart sank. Her fingers slowly raking through Lincoln's hair. It was soft, warm, and fragrant, intoxicating her sense and making her tremble. She shoved it away and stared at the papers before her, but inevitably went back to staring at him. He glanced up, then quickly back down again, deep red spreading over his delicate cheeks.

All at once, revelation struck, and she looked at the papers again.

That _something _she had been trying to name since last night.

Lincoln was non-threatening.

He wasn't a man with rough hands and formidable muscles, he was meek and non-threatening, a boy who was incapable of overpowering her, even if he tried. He was shorter than her by nearly a foot, and his body verged on feminal. He was still unquestionably male, but not so much that it loomed over her.

That made sense, given what she'd been through, but something about it struck her as sick. Was she so afraid of men that she'd rather a boy? A child?

She meditated on that for the rest of the period, and when the bell rang, panic clutched her bosom. Everyone got to their feet, collected their things, and filed out. Lincoln was one of the last, and when he moved, she sent her eyes to the table.

He scurried past the desk, and she did not stop him.

She would do it later.

She just needed time.

During the next class, she tried to process her thoughts and emotions, but they were so hopelessly tangled that she could no sooner separate them than she could two strands of DNA. Her third period was free, and after all the students had departed, she sank into her chair, propped her elbows on the edge of the desk, and plunged her fingers strickenly into her hair.

"I'm a mess," she croaked, and uttered a harsh, humorless laugh. Right now, the last thing she should do is talk to Lincoln. Ignoring it would be admitting defeat. It would, in essence, be as good as a spoken admission. _I'm too afraid to talk to this boy because I'm afraid I might like him. _She didn't! She was just...she was confused, okay? She was still adjusting to her new life and her new personality. She was not yet used to being so reticent. Before Norman, she loved and lived without without reservation. She was a different woman now, more cynical and less free; she was in the middle of finding herself, and interpersonal relationships, especially the romantic kind, are a large part of what defines who we are. At this very instant, she was in a state of flux, discovering who she had become the way a teenager discovers themselves during their great awakening. She was, in a way, repeating that stage of life, unsure and insecure, her inner self still a mystery, like buried. bones being slowly uncovered a little more each day.

She was _not _attracted to Lincoln Loud, no matter how much thinking of him made her heart pitter-patter, or how her stomach bubbled when she looked at him.

And she was going to prove it to herself by talking to him later.

Decided, she spent the rest of the period grading the tests from the first two classes (Lincoln stated one of the contributing factors to the war was _the north and south were really mad at each other_ which made her smile). At the bell, she went to the cafeteria and got a tray. She looked around for Lincoln and found him sitting with a group of boys at a table near the entrance to the auditorium. She could grab him now, take him back to the room, and get this over with, but her stomach crumpled.

Later.

During her next class, she stared out the window at the sun washed athletic field while the students completed their assignment. The football team practiced drills under the watchful eye of Coach Sowell. A tall, muscular black man with a mustache, Coach Sowell asked her out on her second day substituting here and after freezing up like a deer in the headlights, she turned him down. He was very handsome, but also very imposing, much like Norman. Norman stood just over six feet and had big, bulging arms that made his slaps just as devastating as another man's punches. One time he hit her so hard in the back of her head that her nose started to bleed. In her youth, she was drawn to masculinity, but now, if anything, it repelled her.

She thought of Lincoln, with his sleight build and girlish hands, and her middle twisted.

At the bell, she sat up straight and took the tests as each student passed. When she was alone, she swallowed thickly. The upcoming class was the last of the day, and if she didn't track Lincoln down now, she'd miss out on talking to him; she did not like the prospect of going home without resolving this.

Getting up, she went into the hall and looked around. She'd seen Lincoln at his locket before but she took no special notice of where it was. She went left and moved through the crush of humanity flooding the halls, her eyes open for his cowlick. Time ticked steadily away and she was just about to give up when she spotted him ahead, hurriedly rifling through his locker. The breath left her lungs as though she'd been hit in the stomach and she came to a grinding halt. Her resolve started to crumble, and a shiver ran through her body. She started to turn away, but forced her feet to carry her to him. Did she look okay? What about her breath? What if she said something stupid and made a fool out of herself?

Those thoughts and more battered her from every side, and her heart slammed into her ribs with knee-knocking force. Her shadow fell over him, and he looked up; his eyes widened slightly and the color drained from his face, leaving him white as milk. Their eyes briefly met, and Maya's entire being skipped like a scratched CD on a faulty platform.

They were breathtaking, soft and brown with flecks of gold that sparkled in the overhead lighting. Maya's heart crashed faster and her mind blanked in a way it hadn't since she was a girl. Her face turned hot and every atom in her body crackled in the most beautiful pain. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came; she had the sudden urge to giggle, and came so close to actually doing it, that for a fraction of a second, her heart stopped dead.

Lincoln whipped his eyes to his shoes, and the spell broke enough for Maya to find her voice, as weak and shaky as it might have been. "C-Can I see you b-before you leave?"

The boy's shoulders tensed and he nervously scratched the back of his head. "Uh, yeah, sure, what, uh, what about?"

From his stammering tone and breaking hilt, he knew exactly why she wanted to see him. She admired his attempt to play it off, however. "We'll talk about that later."

His head bobbed up and down but he did not make eye contact. "Okay."

She hesitated, then spun on her heels and rushed off. She resisted the impulse to look back; she could feel his eyes on her and an electric tingle ran up the side of her leg.

In that instant, she knew she had made a grave mistake.

She passed the rest of the day in a state of rising anxiety. Focusing was hard, and after fifteen minutes of trying to get into the lesson, she assigned the class free time. She had a stack of papers to grade still but every time she tried, her mind wandered off and she'd find herself staring out the window again. The light was fading, getting weaker as early evening drew on, and the athletic field stood barren, deserted by all but the birds.

The final bell jolted her from her fugue, and she brushed her hair out of her face. The students got up and streamed out of the room, and when the final one was gone, she slouched back in her chair and blew a quavering exhalation. She looked up at the clock, then back to the window, a tight frown saddling her lips.

Hopefully he didn't come. If he didn't, she would let it go and never think about this again. If he did...she honestly didn't know and that scared her more than all of the muscle bound men in the world combined. There was no use in denying it anymore, she was definitely attracted to Lincoln Loud. She knew how repugnant that was, how fucking disguising, and she hated herself for it, but that's where she stood right now. She could pick herself apart and guess why she felt as she did, she could make excuses and justifications until she was blue in the face, she could even admit what a terrible person she was, a common pedophile, but none of those things changed the facts. She didn't know if she would be able to keep herself from doing something truly out of line, and that weakness worried at her like a thousand gnashing teeth.

She didn't have long to wait; five minutes after the room emptied, Lincoln appeared in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his chin up, but his eyes down. Maya's heart clutched and she sat up so quickly the chair almost went out from under her.

"Hey," he said, "y-you wanted to see me?"

Yes.

No.

Both.

"Uh, yes," said and shifted uncomfortably in her seat She nodded to a straight back chair flanking the desk. "P-Please sit down."

Lincoln stayed by the door a second, then came forward with the foot-dragging enthusiasm of a man walking death row for the final time. Without being told to, he grabbed the chair, dragged it closer, and sat, his eyes glued to his lap. Maya turned to face him. A space of less than three feet separated them, so close that she could reach out and lay her hand on his leg. She imagined she could smell his clean, boyish scent, and she reflexively swallowed. Her face burned hotter than it ever had before and her lungs burst for air. Lincoln went on staring at his lap, steeling himself for what was to come. She wished he would look up at her so she could see into those bewitching eyes again.

She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them again, not sure what to do with herself or, even, how to start. Plunging in, she said, "I got your letter yesterday."

The atmosphere between them became heavy and Lincoln nodded slowly, begrudgingly admitting his guilt. She paused, collected her thoughts, and continued. "It was...it was very nice and I...I'm flattered, but…"

She trailed off and let the thought hang unfinished. She stood at a proverbial fork in the road, one lane leading to the right choice, and the other to the wrong one. Which was which, though? In her confusion, she couldn't tell the difference. She knew that what she felt was inappropriate, but she was like a woman sliding on ice, trying frantically to save herself and slipping anyway. Her heart told her one thing and her brain another. She suspected the former was mistaken, or perhaps even outright lying, but its voice was louder, drowning out the protestations of reason.

The right thing is often the hardest, and the truth is typically soft-spoken; her brain told her to send him away, and that was what she would do.

"It was very sweet, Lincoln," she heard herself say around a secret smile, "and it would be a lie to say I didn't like it."

Maybe things would have gone differently if he hadn't chosen that moment to finally look up, but he did, a hopeful light dancing in his eyes and a sly half-grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. A sunbeam falling through the window set his face aglow, and the golden strains in his irises twinkled like starfire. Maya's chest hitched and her heart thumped a crazy beat. Lincoln must have seen something in her gaze, because his smile fell a little and his eyes took on a brimming, doe-like quality. His brow softened, and when Maya cupped his cheek in her hand, his breath caught with a sharp hiss. His skin was warm and silken under her touch, and the stunned look on his face made her heart thunder.

She grazed her thumb tenderly over the ridge of his cheekbone, and the ice beneath her feet gave way. Before she could stop herself, she leaned forward, her brain screaming at her to stop. Lincoln's eyes widened, and in the instant before her lips skimmed his, he looked like a boy just realizing he was in over his head. Their noses brushed, and his ragged breath filled her mouth like ambrosia. Their eyes locked, then she tilted her head, fused their lips, and hungrily stroked his tongue with hers. A tremble raced through him and he panted with shocked excitement, then, following her lead, he kissed her clumsily back, his hand fluttering to the side of her face. The taste of his mouth steeped her already addled brain, and the pillowy caress of his lips knocked her off balance. His tongue lapped hers with the careful uncertainty of inexperience, and holding his face in her hands, she slowed to keep from overwhelming him.

After a moment, they parted, both blushing and panting for air. Maya's head spun like a merry-go-round and her heart throbbed in the confines of her breast. She was keenly aware of her loins, hot and full with passion, and the realization that she was horny for a fourteen-year-old boy brought her back to reality. Horror drew over her like a dark cloud, and her blood ran cold.

She went too far.

She went _way _too far.

Lincoln shook like he was going to come apart, his eyes clouded with misty love drunkness. His lips glistened in the light.

With her saliva.

That more than anything else drove home what she'd just done, and she yanked her hands away from his fevered face, her eyes wide with stupefaction. She spun around to the desk and threaded her fingers through her hair in a gesture bespeaking madness, the gravity of her actions sinking in. "Oh, my God," she moaned, "oh, my God, what did I do?"

Lincoln shook the fog from his head and favored her with an anxious expression. "Ms. DiMartino?"

He sounded small...child-like.

Because he _was _a child.

"Oh, my God."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up one hand, cutting him off. She couldn't bring herself to look at him as she replied. "I-I shouldn't have done that, I don't know what came over me."

"It's okay," he said quickly, "I really liked it."

Her stomach turned. So did she.

"I shouldn't have done that," she repeated. She turned to him, and a look of pain flickered across his face. "I-I shouldn't, it was wrong of me. Please don't tell anyone."

"I won't," he said, "I meant it, I really like you and -"

She sighed. "Lincoln, you're a child and I'm an adult. It's wrong."

There was no conviction in her voice...nor was there any in her heart.

"I've just been going through a lot and...I'm sorry, I can't."

His eyes, so beautiful and expressive, welled with hurt, but he nodded anyway.

Maya started to lay her hand on his knee, but stopped herself; with the arousal bursting in her depths, even a simple, chaste touch might be enough to lead her into doing something she would _really _regret. "I'm sorry, Lincoln," she said earnestly. "You're a sweet and handsome boy, and…" she balked at saying this, but it was the truth, and she wanted to soften the blow as much as possible. "...if I was younger, I'd be your girlfriend." She wavered. "But I'm not, a-and I can't be."

He drew a deep, burdened breath. "I understand." Tears flooded his eyes, and Maya's heart shattered. She held out her hand to stay him, but he was already getting to his feet. "I have to go," he blurted. He grabbed his backpack from the floor, tossed it over his shoulder, and hurried for the door. She called his name, but he ducked into the hall and disappeared, leaving her alone.

She stared after him for a long time, then sat back in the chair, fighting back tears of her own now. Lincoln was such a beautiful and sensitive boy...and she hurt him. She never should have kissed him. She couldn't commit, couldn't cross that final line, the one from which there really was no return. She didn't mean to, but she lead him on and broke his heart.

Her tears started to fall, and though she struggled against them, they came...and they came _hard. _


	5. Desperate Measures

_**My fantasy has turned to madness **_

_**And all my goodness **_

_**Has turned to badness **_

_**My need to possess you **_

_**Has consumed my soul **_

_**My life is trembling **_

_**I have no control**_

**\- Animotion (Obsession, 1984)**

Norman Derringer was losing it.

Sitting in the squad room on the hot afternoon of November 16, his legs crossed and one foot tapping a restless tempo against the air, he chewed the inside of his bottom lip and gazed sightlessly at the computer screen, head sore, eyes aching, the same thoughts racing through his tired brain. He hadn't slept in days, had barely eaten, could barely sit still long enough to rest. At home, he paced the floors all night, stopping only to look up at the pictures of Maya tacked to the bedroom walls. At one point, he blacked out and ripped most of them down, coming back to himself standing over them and panting like an angry gorilla. Someone swept the plasma screen TV onto the floor and kicked it to death, then punched a hole in the wall; it must have been him, but he didn't remember doing it, and could almost believe that Maya was responsible.

But that was absurd. He changed the locks _and _the security code after she left, and she was too stupid to circumvent the system, so it had to be him. The inability to recall his actions infuriated him, feeding the flames of his rage. He blanked out more and more these days and even the smallest inconvenience pushed him over the edge. Yesterday, one of the sinks in the men's room at the station squirted his shirt, and he responded by battering the faucet with his fist until it snapped off and clattered into the basin. On his way home, someone cut him off in traffic on the 405, and a nuclear bomb of wrath detonated in his chest; he hit the gas, pulled up beside them, and screamed until his voice broke and his vision grayed. Thank God he didn't go into a fugue, he might have shot the son of a bitch.

That night, he lay in bed, bathed in low, ghostly red light emanating from the lamp on the nightstand, a pair of Maya's panties draped over his face. They were black and lacy with a little pink bow above the crotch. It had been so long since she wore them that he could no longer smell her musk, but they remained his favorite. In happier days, he'd make her wear them, then cuff her to the bed, jam her ankles above her head, and pound into her as hard as he could, knocking pained gasps and agonized whimpers from her throat. Before he came, he always wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed, the sound of her strangling and gagging for air the sweetest melody. Sometimes, letting go was hard, and he didn't until she went limp with unconsciousness. These panties, in particular, reminded him of those glorious sessions, and when he was edging on collapse, they put him in a better mood.

But not last night. He recalled the look of pain in her eyes, the noise of her misery, the panicked way her walls contracted around him as she sank into oblivion, perhaps for the final time, and the sharpest sense of loss plunged into his chest like the wickedly honed blade of a knife. His face grew hot, his jaw clenched, his body quaked. The ringing in his ears sounded like mocking laughter, and he exploded; screaming, he shot out his arm, and the lamp toppled off of the table, the bulb popping and going out with a flash when it hit the floor. He jumped to his feet, grabbed the dresser, and flung it aside; it hit the wall, cracked it, and crashed to one side with a deafening roar. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and his vision blurred. Somehow, he wound up in front of the pictures on the other side of the room, teeth grinding, hands wringing one like a rag. He couldn't see her in the darkness, but he could feel, a thousand sets of eyes staring down at him, taunting him, _defying _him.

The storm eventually passed, but not until he ire was spent: The bedroom door hung askew from one overtaxed hinge, the microwave lay on the floor in a pile of glass, the fridge was riddled with fist-sized dents, the coffee table littered the carpet in jagged shards, and blood seeped from his ruined knuckles. Today, they were sore, crisscrossed with abrasions, and trembled slightly as if with Parkinson's. Troy, who was currently picking up lunch at Cosgrove's Deli around the corner, kept flicking his eyes curiously between them and Derringer's face, but hadn't asked what happened.

He knew to keep his nigger mouth closed, which was the only reason Derringer put up with him. The last one, a spic named Hernandez, tried to usurp Derringer's authority at every turn. When they'd get to a crime scene, he'd jump in before Derringer could, asking questions, giving orders, acting like _he _was in charge. No one said anything, but they saw Hernandez as the dominant one, the butch to Derringer's bitch. He could sense it when he walked into the room, the others snickering behind their hands and questioning his courage, his resolve, his masculinity, and even his sexuality. Hernandez was stubborn, and when Derringer pulled rank on him, playing the storied seniority card, he rolled his eyes.

Fucking rolled his eyes.

That was okay.

He'd pay.

And he did. One night, they went to a house in Crenshaw where a Blood named Amari Johnson suspected of carrying out a gangland slaying of three Crips was reportedly hiding. Johnson opened fire and ran out the back. Hernadez shot him in the back and the gun flew from his hand. They went to check on him, and seeing his chance, Derringer acted: He took his burner gun out, a .38 he carried in case he ever had to plant one on a suspect, walked across the kitchen, then turned and shot Hernandez in the back of his head. He told Internal Affairs there was another suspect, and his act was so convincing they never even suspected the truth.

Troy dropped a bag in front of him, and he blinked. "Soup's on," Troy said and sat.

"Thanks," Derringer replied and sat up straight.

They talked as they ate. Captain Stone was appointing an L.A. Ripper task force and both of them were on it, meaning that they were off all their other cases until the Ripper was caught; their focus was on him and him alone. Stone offered him the lead spot, but he turned it down; he'd be chained to a desk and coordinating efforts from the task force's joint office instead of going out in the field. No _thank _you.

Unbeknownst to the others, the Ripper claimed another victim the other night, a Honduran hooker who called herself Jenna. He picked her up two nights ago, took her back to his apartment, and beat her head in with a hammer before choking her out. She was currently lying in a bathtub full of ice, awaiting disposal.

Derringer wasn't worried about her or the task force right now.

He was worried about Maya.

Since finding Elena's address, he'd been trying to formulate a strategy, but he hadn't been able to get his mind off the treasonous little bitch long enough to think straight for weeks, and his grip, normally firm, was slipping. He was starting to get sloppy, and the increasing frequency of his blackouts worried him. The stress of dealing with Maya's betrayal was collapsing him, and if he didn't cut it from his life, it would overwhelm him.

There was only one way to do that.

And it was now or never.

Faking sick, he left the station before five and drove home through the sun drenched streets of L.A., his way lined by tall, stately palms. His complex, a low, two story stucco building shaped like an L sat between the railroad tracks and a dry, concrete canal that fed into the equally dry L.A. River. He parked beneath a parched California Live Oak and climbed the stairs, the Crown Vic's in-car laptop tucked under his arm. His next door neighbor, a stooped old lady with glasses named Mrs. Frederick, watered the many potted plants flanking her door, and Derringer was tempted to kick her shin; he hated those goddamn plants and he hated her too.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Frederick," he said with a smile.

She flashed one of her own but didn't reply. She'd been living in her cluttered little rat hole, alone after her husband's death, for going on twenty years, and she was _nosy, _so she heard everything. She knew he beat Maya, knew he screamed at her until she wept, probably even knew about the hookers. She never told anyone because she rightfully feared him. If she ever did, she'd have an 'accident' and tumble over the railing. Poor, dear thing.

Fishing the keys from his pocket, he opened the door, went in, and closed it behind him. Faint light shone around the edges of the curtain and cast the living room in dusky hues. The TV lay where it had fallen two nights ago, and glass crunched underfoot as he crossed to the sofa. He sat, opened the laptop, and accessed Google Maps. He typed Elena's address in and went to street view. A brick tenement overlooked a grimy street corner, a vacant lot to one side. A rusted fire escape zigzagged across the facade, and boxy A/C units jutted from the windows. The date the photo was taken was listed as May 2017. Recent but not recent enough for his liking, things may have changed over the past three years. He'd have to stake her out anyway, so he supposed it didn't matter.

He had a week of sick days saved up. This was a bad time for him to take them, with the newly created task force's first meeting tomorrow, but Stone was legally compelled to let him. He wouldn't need all of them, though.

Just a few.

Closing the laptop, he set it aside and went to the bedroom, stepping over the broken remains of a radio and grinding glass that used to be a vase underfoot. He knelt next to the bed, reached under, and pulled out a black duffel bag boasting a white Nike checkmark. He set it on the mattress, grabbed an armload of clothes at random, and shoved them in, not stopping to see what he had and what he didn't and not caring either way. He carried it into the living room, tossed it onto the sofa next to the laptop, then went into the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife from the drying rack. He opened a drawer, dug out a roll of duct tape, a screwdriver, and a pair of pliers, then returned to the living room and put them in the bag. Last, he added the laptop, then zipped it up.

Did he have everything? Knife, tape, pliers check. Beretta, check. Handcuffs, mace, check. He didn't think Elena would be hard to crack. 5'4 and one hundred pounds overweight, she was even softer and weaker than her slut sister. Maya could take a punch, Elena would probably break and sing like a fucking canary as soon as he raised his hand.

Satisfied, he left the apartment, and was just locking the door when he remembered the body in the tub. It was partially buried in ice and the air was set at a chilly 60 degrees, but even so, it would start to sink if he was gone too long. The units on both sides of him were occupied and the stench would be inescapable after three or four days.

The neighbors knew better than to complain, though. He was the law and they implicitly understood that. His record was sterling and he'd been in good standing - even commendated by the mayor - for over ten years. Who would believe them?

Still, he hesitated. This Maya bullshit had him on edge, and when you're on edge, you make mistakes, and mistakes are a cop's best friend. 99 percent of crooks don't go down through good police work, they go down because they got cocky and stumbled.

If there was time, he'd go back inside, cut her up, and scatter her in the hills, but there wasn't; every moment that ticked by with Maya out there, mocking him, was a moment of turmoil, and turmoil would get him caught quicker than a strange smell coming from his suite. In turmoil, your judgement clouds and your mind goes black, in turmoil you can kill an entire city block without meaning too, and come back to yourself just as they were shoving you into a cop car. As long as Maya hung over him like the dark cloud she was, he would be perpetually under her thrall, trapped like a fly on sticky paper.

The body could wait. Right now, the most important thing was freeing himself from the skuzzy little bitch's yolk.

He locked the door, followed the breezeway to the steps, and pounded down. He threw the bag into the backseat of the Crown Vic, climbed in behind the wheel, and started the engine. He backed up, turned right onto San Digot Street, and drove east toward the freeway, the dark thoughts already subsiding and a sense of peace coming over him. For the first time in months, he was firmly in control, being proactive instead of _re_active. Renewed energy flowed through him, and he felt genuinely good.

Before getting on I-10, he filled up at an Arco service station in the shadow of a raised interstate where traffic passed at a crawl. Palms swayed in the furnace blast breeze and a nigger in rags made his way around the parking lot asking passersby for change. He started toward Derringer, spotted the shield clipped to his belt, and pulled a sharp U-turn. Derringer smiled to himself, then shoved the nozzle back into its cradle. One time when he was a beat cop, a nigger approached him looking for change, and Derringer shoved his gun into his mouth. He and his men made a game of seeing who could crack a nigger the hardest, and he always won.

With a wistful sigh, he swiped his debit card, then got back in and drove away.

Destination: Revenge.

* * *

Lincoln Loud was dying.

At least that's what it felt like. Two days ago, he trudged into Room 212 expecting a tongue lashing, and boy, did he ever get it...just not in the way he thought. Sitting there in front of Ms. DiMartino, his literary indiscretion laid bare, he smoldered with shame and remorse. When he hazarded a quick glance at her face, the disquiet in her eyes was abundantly clear, and he regretted writing that stupid note more than he already did. She was afraid of him. That much was obvious, and scaring the woman you like, he discovered, felt pretty freaking awful.

How he did it, he didn't know, but he assumed it was his boldness. He wrote her a love letter, signed his name, and put it in her mailbox. He knew, in a roundabout way, that that wasn't something most boys with a crush would do. It was an unspoken rule by which all boys - all kids - of a certain age abided. Only a real weirdo would step outside of custom, someone who wasn't thinking right and probably one stiff breeze away from going full yandere. By doing what he did, he all but tricked her into believing he was crazy or something. He didn't know. Seeing the alarm in her face hurt either way, and he understood then that one's actions can sometimes have completely unintended consequences.

He squirmed uncomfortably and searched his brain for a magical combination of words that would undo his letter and restore her peace of mind. _I'm not a psycho, honest, I just think you're beautiful_. He could feel her eyes on him, and he chafed.

_Why did I do this? _

Then she said something he wasn't anticipating, something that made him look up from his lap in surprise.

_It would be a lie to say I didn't like it. _

Their eyes met, and a strange and powerful feeling he had never experienced before stirred in his chest. The air, dense with tension, crackled, and donning that nervous, closed-lipped smile he so loved, she laid her hand on the side of his face. That one touch, soft and warm as silk, set every sensor in his body on fire and brought his heart to a grinding halt.

Staring transfixed into his eyes, she leaned her lips into his and her tongue slipped gingerly past his lips, timid and coy at first, then surer, more passionate. No word could ever capture the explosion of feeling that enveloped him. His mind rolled away and his body convulsed, all of his nerve endings bursting into flames and his heart knocking off kilter. He'd never kissed a girl before, and _thought _he mimicked her example, but he couldn't remember, couldn't remember anything but the candy taste of her lips and the wet sensation of her tongue sensually stroking his. His dick swelled against the inseam of his jeans and he bucked in place like a man in the electric chair, his teeth scraping hers with a spine tingling clack.

She held his face in her hands and tilted her head from side to side, her tongue coaxing his to follow.

Without warning, she pulled roughly away, her eyes wide with horror and her mouth agape as though it just occurred to her exactly what she was doing.

_I shouldn't have done that, _she had said. _I can't_.

Those words, and the dazed tone they were uttered in, ripped through him like a barrage of bullets, piercing his chest and tearing his heart to shreds. _I understand, _he said through numb lips, but he didn't. After he stumbled away on the verge of tears, he walked home in a fog, head spinning and so muddled that he walked three blocks past his house without realizing it. He worked feverishly to process everything that had just happened, but his brain overloaded and shut down, leaving him alone with the threshing in his stomach. The intoxicating taste of her mouth lingered long after he got home, and the memory of the needy look in her eyes sent barbed ripples through his guts. He played the kiss over and over in his mind, and the agony of her rejection deepened.

Why did she kiss him then send him away? Did he do something wrong? She said if she was younger, she'd be his girlfriend, but was she telling the truth? Maybe he wasn't a good enough kisser or something.

Later, he sobered enough to think more clearly and look at things from her perspective. She had, he reckoned, a momentary lapse of reason, one of those hiccups where emotion takes over and we do things that we don't really mean. In the heat of the moment, she kissed him, then realized what she was doing and stopped. Afterward, when he told her he liked her, she said: _Lincoln, you're a child and I'm an adult. It's wrong. _

Back in the classroom, he couldn't understand, but now he did, and he didn't blame her, he guessed; that was little consolation, though, and did little to alleviate the greasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Lying on top of the covers in soft, purple twilight, he could think of nothing but her shimmering eyes, her lips, the way she paused at one point to draw a shuddery breath of his air, how her French tipped nails playfully kneaded his face, the way she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and nibbled it…

Each thought tightened the vise around his chest until he could hardly breathe. Images of her face flickered through his head like a slideshow, getting faster and faster until they blurred, and his heart ached so bad it felt like it was going to explode. He sat up, held his flushed face in his hands, and inhaled.

What was he going to do? He couldn't just let her go, he…

...he loved her.

Yesterday, hell, even that afternoon, he hesitated to use that word, rebelled at making such a major proclamation. Now, having stared into her eyes and kissed her lips, he could say unequivocally and without doubt that he was in love with Ms. DiMartino. He loved her voice, her smile, her...her everything, and the threat of losing her after tasting her mouth and touching her cheek clutched his middle like a murderous fist. Things had changed exponentially in the past few hours; his thoughts, his feelings, _him. _Kissing her felt right in a way nothing else ever had. The meeting of their lips was transcendental, a eureka moment accompanied by the Hallelujah Chorus and played in slow motion because it was that profound. He searched his meager vocabulary for the right word, but he could not find it, if he had it at all, so he fell back on an old standby, cliche but no less applicable. Their lips fit together like two puzzle pieces clicking neatly and perfectly into place. After drinking from the well of her tender kiss, there was no going back. He _had _to have her.

He'd talk to her tomorrow, he decided, and profess his love in person. He'd take her hand, gaze into her eyes, and tell her everything he felt.

Making that resolution should have been the end of it, but it wasn't. She followed him through the rest of the evening, filling his skull like a pile of rocks and plucking the strings of his heart in the most beautifully painful way. Sitting at the dinner table, he restlessly shifted from butt cheek to butt cheek and swiped the tip of his tongue over his lips, imagining he could still taste her. He mentally composed and revised what he would say to her, then scrapped it and started over again, skipping over the same words and phrases like a broken needle stuck in a groove.

An elbow rammed into his side, and he came perilously close to falling out of his chair. Next to him, Lynn furrowed her brows. "Mom's talking to you."

She is?

He looked questioningly to his mother, seated at the head of the table, and she frowned. "Are you alright?"

Everyone was looking at him strangely, and he missed a beat. "Yeah," he said, "I'm fine, just kind of tired." He smiled weakly.

"Do you want to go lie down?" she fretted.

"No, really, I'm fine."

Lucy spoke from her spot next to Lola. "You look like you saw a ghost. Was it Grandma Harriet? She likes your room, she says it's cozy."

"No, he doesn't," Lola snapped, "he looks like he has a big test and he didn't study for it."

Lana leaned over the table and squinted, and even though she was a good four feet away from him,Lincoln reflexively shrank back. "Nah," she said, "he looks like he has gas."

"Nothing a little football won't cure," Lynn declared.

Next to Luan, Lisa piped up. "I have an experimental anti-gas medication I've been working on. You have to take it as a suppository."

Luan opened her mouth, but mercifully, Mom raised her hand. "Everyone leave Lincoln alone and finish your dinner."

Everyone went back to eating, and Lincoln pushed bits of food around with his fork, his stomach so sour that the smell alone made him queasy. Any sign of illness, however, would result in questions, concern, and every member of his overbearing family swooping in to play doctor, so he forced himself to eat half, then begged off. In his room, he stretched out on top of the covers and lay in darkness, the only illumination coming from the hall light seeping under the door. He rehearsed what he would say to Ms. DiMartino and envisioned every possible reaction from her standing fast in refusing him to her kissing him again...and more. His stomach rocked and reeled and when he inhaled, his lungs could not fully expand for the dread pressing down on his chest.

At some point, he dropped into a thin and dream haunted sleep. He was back in the classroom with Ms. DiMartino, only for some reason, he couldn't see her. He knew she was there, but her form was hidden from his sight, and he ached to gaze upon her face like an addict yearning for his fix.

The scene changed, and when he woke at dawn, it was shrouded in warm, peaceful bliss that began to dissipate as soon as his brain booted up enough to register it as just a dream.

_No…_

Cold rushed in like darkness after the dying of a fire, and Lincoln's stomach clenched. He rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms protectively around his middle. The alarm went off ten minutes later, as he glided along the border between this world and the world of dreams, and the shrill cry burned off the remaining fog in his head. He slapped the off button, sat up, and struggled to keep his eyelids from drooping. Chilly pink light skimmed the walls and birds called to each other from treetop perches, their song light, happy, and gay, contrasting with Lincoln's mood. He got up, slipped into the hall, and went to the bathroom, where he stood under water so hot it seared his flesh.

When he was done, he dried off, got dressed, and went downstairs. It was so early that he caught Mom right before she left with Lily. The four year old, blonde hair in a ponytail, wore a puffy pink jacket that swallowed her whole and her favorite purple jeans. Mom flew panickedly through the living room looking for her purse. "I could have sworn I put it on the couch," she said with a stricken note.

"Uh, Mom?"

She stopped and looked at him.

"It's dangling from your shoulder."

She lifted her arm, saw it, and uttered an embarrassed laugh. "Oh, there it is."

Lily rolled her eyes and shook her head. Mom was always misplacing something in plain sight and then working herself into a tizzy looking for it. She was almost as bad as Leni, who kept losing her sunglasses even though they never left her head.

She took Lily by the hand and went out the door, and Lincoln made his way into the kitchen, where he poured milk and cereal into a bowl. He carried it into the dining room, sat, and stared down at it. Why did he make cereal? He wasn't even hungry. He ate anyway, and by the time he was done, the others clustered around the table talking and eating. He took his bowl back into the kitchen, washed it, and set it in the drying rack. Bracing his hands on the edge of the sink, he leaned over and took a deep breath. Ms. DiMartino's words echoed through his skull like the tolling of a bell. _If I were younger, I'd be your girlfriend_. _If I were younger, I'd be your girlfriend, be your girlfriend, your girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend. _His temples throbbed and his scoured brain ached from worrying the same thoughts, like scratching a patch of flesh raw with your nails.

On the way to school, he shambled along the sidewalk like the living dead, thumbs thrust through the straps of his backpack and eyes staring sightlessly ahead. At the elementary school, he muttered a perfunctory goodbye to his sisters and went on, his step hurrying. He got to Royal County Middle ten minutes later and marched straight to Room 212.

Ms. DiMartino wasn't there, and his spirits crashed. He spun around, starting to panic, and shoved a seventh grader out of the way. He couldn't take the torture of suspense any longer, he needed to see her _now_.

The only other place he could think of was the cafeteria. Kids packed the tables and stood in long lines at the counter. He looked around but didn't see her, and cussed under his breath. He returned to Room 212, heart pounding, and came to a grinding halt. Ms. DiMartino, clad in a purple skirt and white blouse, approached from the opposite direction, a cup of coffee in one hand. Her eyes were pointed at the floor and her skin, normally like sun-kissed Sonoran sand, was pallid and wan. She looked up, saw him, and froze.

They faced each other for what seemed like an eternity, neither able to move or speak, then she ducked her head and hurried into the room, her shoulders hunched defensively. She looked like seeing him was the last thing she wanted to do, and Lincoln's chest twanged with hurt. He almost broke and skulked away, but forged ahead anyway. Ms. DiMartino stood by the desk with her back to him, stiff and rigid as though braced for the worst.

Lincoln swallowed. "M-Ms. DiMartino?" His voice issued as an uncertain whisper.

She tilted her head back and took a fortifying breath. "Yes, Lincoln?" she asked with strained patience.

He faltered, but pressed on. "I-I wanted to talk to you. About, uh, yesterday." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. Kids and teachers passed in the hall but none of them spared so much as a fleeting look.

"There's nothing to talk about," she said with as much forbearance as she could, and Lincoln winced. "What happened was a mistake and it won't happen again." She turned but could not meet his eyes. "I'm sorry but it can't."

Lincoln opened his mouth to respond, to tell her everything he felt, but she faced away from him again. No shoulder had ever been colder, and the atmosphere darkened as surely as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun. 'Please just let it go."

With those words, she wrenched his still beating heart from his chest, flung it to the ground, and stomped it to paste. There was no convincing her; she made up her mind and that was that. He came so close, kissed her, only for it to be ripped cruelly away from him.

Stinging tears welled in his eyes and he sucked his quivering lips into his mouth. The bell rang like a bad omen, and all he could do was take his seat and stare down at his trembling hands. He didn't look up for the rest of the class, didn't take notes, didn't do anything but wallow in his excruciating heartbreak.

At the end, he grabbed his books and fled as fast as he could without running. He imagined he could feel Ms. DiMartino's eyes on his back, and a sullen gust of resentment broke over him. He slammed his locker door open, jammed his books in, and slammed it closed again. It wasn't fair. He loved her and she didn't even care. She kissed him then changed her mind but he didn't, he still loved her, and he was going out of his mind. He wanted to scream, cry, kick, punch, but most of all, abruptly, he wanted to sleep.

The anger flowed out of him and he sagged like an empty suit of clothes. Light, noise, and activity surrounded him, assaulting his senses, and he just wanted to be alone.

Head hung and shoulders slumped, he dragged himself to his next class and tried his best to look like his entire life wasn't crashing down around him. He told himself he was being melodramatic, but that didn't stop the pain in his chest. She didn't want to be with him because he was too young and she could get in trouble, and while he kind of got that, it hurt anyway. He remembered what she said, _I've been going through a lot lately, _and he suddenly wondered what she meant by that. Maybe she needed time to get over whatever was bothering her, or time to get used to the idea of being with him.

Yeah, that might be it. He'd give her a couple days then talk to her again. In the meantime, he had to suck it up and act like a man about this, because if he acted like a weepy little boy, she might be put off even more.

At lunch, he stared into space and tried to get his mind off of her, but to no avail. "Any plans later, gentlemen?" Clyde asked in general.

"I got a Call of Honor toruament online," Poppa Wheelie smirked, "me and my boys are gonna make the Area 51 Massacre of 2019 look like a fucking joke."

"I got chores," Rusty said.

Lincoln didn't reply, and Clyde fixed him with a scrutinizing look. "Uh, I gotta help my sisters." That was a bald faced lie, but he was afraid Clyde wanted to hang out, and hanging out was the last thing he wanted to do today.

"You're basically their slave," Poppa Wheelie sniffed. "You're such a cuck, Loud. I bet you wear panties too."

Enduring friendly teasing was the second to last thing he wanted to do today. The best way to counter it was to just go along with it. "Actually, I wear thongs."

"My older sister wears thongs," Rusty put in, "I don't get it, why do girls like having wedgies?"

"They wear them for dudes, duh," Poppa Wheelie said.

"I dunno," Rusty said, "she doesn't even have a boyfriend."

Poppa Wheelie grinned evilly. "Yes she does. Me."

And like that, the spotlight was off of him.

His last class of the day was study hall, and feeling a little better than he had earlier, he got a kid he was in history with to let him copy his notes. When the final bell rang, he collected his things and left the building through the side door. He started toward the football field, intending to cut across, but stopped when he spotted Ms. DiMartino crossing the parking lot. He stopped and watched her climb behind the wheel of a red Ford Focus, his heart pounding. He realized he'd probably look like a creep if she caught him, and rushed away, head down to make a smaller target of himself.

Lola, Lucy, Lana, and Lucy were waiting for him, and they walked home together through the brisk afternoon, Lana and Lola bickering and Lisa explaining to Lucy why young earth creationism was the most dangerous of all 'fiction purporting to be fact.' Lincoln tuned them out and called up a vision of Ms. DiMartino's face. It was both cutting and comforting, and he let out a heavy sigh.

When they got home, he went straight to his room, closed the door, and kicked out of his shoes. He tossed his backpack carelessly onto the floor and flopped face first on the bed as though surrendering himself to the repetitive thoughts and visions flashing through his mind. Three days, he'd give her three days to let things settle, then he'd try to talk to her again. This time, no matter what she said or how quickly she turned her back, he would tell her everything. In fact, he'd write it down so that he didn't freeze up or blank out.

Pushing up, he got to his feet, sat at his desk, and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil from the top drawer. Bun-Bun looked on from his place on the dresser, one ear cocked quizzically to the side. Lincoln held the pencil poised over the page, straining to capture a thought or emotion from the whirring maelstrom between his ears and missing every single one. He had so much to say, so many feelings to share, and all of them tried shoving through at once, effectively blocking the way, each jostling to be first but none making it past.

He sighed and looked up at Bun-Bun as if for help, but there was no help to be had; the rabbit stared at and past him with unseeing eyes. He was still untangling his thoughts when Luan poked her head in to tell him dinner was ready.

Setting the pencil aside, he got up and went downstairs. Everyone talked, laughed, and enjoyed each other's company, but Lincoln was numb to it all. He was surrounded by people, people who loved him, but he felt utterly alone, and imagined he would as long as he didn't have the one person who mattered most.

His gus knotted and gave out a needy rumble. He ate to keep up appearances and spare himself the battery of questions his mother and sisters would administer, then retreated to his room. He sat at the desk, picked the pencil up, and started to write, naming and declaring his emotions in a stream-of-consciousness snarl that he would put into order later. He filled two pages with loose, sloppy script, the graphite blazing across the paper in a frenzy of composition. When he was finished, he read it over, then wrote another one using slightly different language and touching on points he didn't in the first. He did this because as long as he was being proactive, he could outpace the wearisome thoughts and stinging emotions. Done, he sat back in the chair and raked his fingers through his hair, surprised to find it damp with perspiration. Ms. DiMartino's eyes streaked across his mind, and he swallowed thickly.

Consumed, that's how he felt, consumed by her, burning, gnashing, twisting, reeling. His middle shredded beneath phantom claws, and his leaden stomach clenched and unclenched like a hand opening and closing, opening and closing. Impacted thoughts weighed down his brain and emotions constipated his heart. It was like an unslakable thirst from which there was no respite, like walking on hot coals, like watching through barred windows as the hangman's scaffold slowly took shape in the courtyard below; now a skeletal framework, now a platform, now complete and ready for your neck. Restless energy pumped through his veins and he tapped his foot impatiently on the floor, then began to drum his fingers on the desk. It was stuffy and too quiet, the walls looming over him and getting closer, closer, advancing like midnight monstrosities in one of Lucy's stupid books.

It was 10:00pm by the clock on the bedside table, and the house was beginning to wind down, the thumps, shouts, and slamming doors tapering off to silence. Unable to contain himself any longer, Lincoln got to his feet and began to pace back and forth, losing himself in the simple act of moving. How many days did he say he'd give her? Three? That was a lot. He didn't know if he could _handle _three more nights like this. With every passing moment, he wound a little tighter, like a spring, and if it went on too long, he'd snap.

She needed time, though.

But did she really? She brushed him off so easily, like what they shared meant nothing to her. Did she feel this way right now? Was she pacing the floors and going out of her mind? He doubted it. If not, then she probably didn't feel the same way. This is how it's supposed to be when you're in love with someone, right? Not feeling this way must mean you don't like the other person...it must mean that she didn't like him. Or at least that she didn't like him the same way, or to the same degree, that he liked her. Okay, he got it, she was an adult and he was a teenager, ooooh, so wrong, but that shouldn't matter. It didn't to him. It made no difference. But to her, it did. If her feelings couldn't overcome that teensy weensy obstacle, it stood to reason that they weren't as strong as his, and wouldn't be even if he gave her two hundred days.

Some of the fight ran out of him and he sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands pressing to the sides of his face. Bun-Bun watched him from his periphery, and maybe it was Lincoln's imagination, but he swore he saw savage gratification in his black eye, as though he were enjoying his master's distress.

Why did he still have that stupid thing anyway? Only babies, girls, and homos keep stuffed animals chilling on their dresser.

Does Ms. DiMartino have stuffed animals?

Ugh. Stop thinking about her, please. You're killing me.

What's she been going through lately?

I don't know. She probably just said that to soften the blow.

He called up a picture of her sitting at the desk and examine it closely, trying to find telltale signs that she was troubled or preoccupied and failing. She didn't seem like she had a lot on her mind, but he hadn't been paying attention to that; he was too caught up by her beauty to notice whether or not she was burdened by stress.

What was she doing right now? Was she thinking of him? He got to his feet before he knew what he was doing and went to his window. He undid the lock and lifted the sash, a peal of cold November wind rolling into the room and drying the sweat on his brow. Fallen leaves swept across the empty street with a scraping rustle, and the big oak in Mr. Grouse's front yard shivered against the chill. The moon sat high in the inky sky, the glow of its skull-like face dappling the desolate night land in silvery half light. Stars smattered across the void glinted icily, and Lincoln craned his neck up to see them better. He didn't know where Ms. DiMartino lived, but she was out there right now, under the same gibbous moon, perhaps even looking up at it like him. The edges of Lincoln's mouth turned down and his stomach did a slow, clumsy somersault.

Tomorrow..he'd talk to her tomorrow. No waiting around, no putting it off, and no backing down. Last time, he meekly accepted her rejection and slunk away with his tail between his legs like a coward, but not this time.

Not this time.

He lay in bed for a long time staring at the moonbeams on the wall before lapsing into a thin and fitful slumber. The alarm woke him at six, and he couldn't remember his dreams, though he knew he had them. His eyes were grainy and his head sore, but he got instantly up anyway and went to the bathroom. He jumped in the shower, turned the water as hot as it would go, and let it burn off the mist in his brain. The acidic sloshing in his stomach was back and by the time he was done, he felt like he was going to be sick. Lynn, Luan, and Lucy waited in line at the door, and as soon as he opened it, Lynn shoved him aside and went in.

Gee, good morning to you too, sis.

In his room, he dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. He stood at his closet and contemplated the selection before settling on an olive green, military style short sleeve button up with GOLDBERG stitched across the left breast. He stood in front of the mirror on the back of the door and considered himself. He wanted to look nice, but not so nice that his desperation was obvious.

This is good enough, he thought. He packed his book bag then went downstairs. After a day (or was it two?) of barely eating, he was hungry. He grabbed a box of Dino Puffs from the pantry, poured milk on top, and took it into the dining room. He scrolled through his phone as he ate, trying fervently to stave off thoughts of Ms. DiMartino and largely succeeding. In the Ace Savvy Fans group on Facebook, Hospital and Stagthesis argued over which Ace character should be Moused (drawn having sex with Micky Mouse, a long running meme in the Ace fandom), and on 4chan, Petanu begged money for his mom's bail. Lola and Lana passed through on their way to the kitchen, then came back in, Lana with a slice of pizza on a paper plate and Lola with an apple. Lincoln glanced up, then furrowed his brow.

"Where'd you get pizza?" he asked.

Lana, sitting on his right, shrugged one shoulder. "Hid it," she said.

To his left, Lola rolled her eyes in disgust.

The last time they had pizza was _at least _two weeks ago. Dad ordered Pissy's because someone "accidentally" turned the oven up to 500 while his beans and franks were cooking and ruined them (Lana did the deed while he and Lucy kept watch). "Wait, so you had that pizza in the fridge for _two weeks?" _

Lana picked it up and shrugged. "I forgot about it."

Lincoln leaned over, and she froze, heckles rising like she was afraid he was going to snatch it away and take it for himself. The pepperoni was gray and withered, and green mold dotted the crust and large swaths of the rotting cheese. Its stench, like something dead, found his nose, and he gagged. "Don't eat that."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"There's fuzz growing on it!"

Lana looked at it, then brought it to her lips. "Extra flavor."

Crying out in revulsion, Lincoln sprang over the table and grabbed at it. Anticipating this, Lana spun and swatted his hand. "It's mine!"

He reached for it and she slapped at him with a sneer of hatred. She lifted it to her mouth, and he closed his hand around her wrist. "Let it go!"

"No! I hid it fair and square!"

Lola took a bite of her apple and flicked her eyes from one sibling to the other like a girl watching a particularly heated tennis match. Lincoln bore down as hard as he could on Lana's wrist, and with a squeal, she dropped the pizza to her lap. Before she could pick it back up, he plucked it up and turned quickly away. It was cold, hard, and slimy in his grasp. "Ugh, it's worse than the Nasty Patty."

Lana sullenly crossed her arms and stuck her bottom lip out. Lincoln carried the pizza into the kitchen, dropped it in the trash, and washed his hands, scrubbing extra hard. God knows what kind of bacteria that thing developed sitting in the back of the fridge. He cut the sink, dried his hands on a paper towel, and went back into the dining room. Lucy and Lisa sat at the table now, the former with her nose buried in a book and the latter jotting down notes and mumbling to herself. Lana stared petulantly at the wall, her brows angled down in a V. "You're lucky," Lincoln said and sat, "that could have killed you."

"Yeah," Lana said, "with goodness."

"With cancer, AIDS, and Superflu."

"Superflu isn't real, Lincoln," Lisa said. "It's a fictional manmade virus from - "

Lucy cut her off. "_The Stand _by Stephen King."

"Yes," Lisa said, "and acquired immune deficiency syndrome, street name AIDS, is not transmutable through tainted foodstuffs, unless said food comes into contact with the blood of an infected individual." A note of smug self-superiority crept into her voice.

Lincoln took a deep breath. "Lise...this is why no one likes you."

The little girl's face darkened. "You liked me just fine when I cured your explosive diarrhea last month...the same explosive diarrhea that cause you to defecate in your pants."

Lincoln's heart dropped, and everyone laughed. "You were supposed to keep that a secret!"

Lisa sniffed. "In the words of the immortal Lil' John: Don't start no shit, it won't be no shit."

Blushing, Lincoln picked up his phone and fled into the living room. Stupid Lisa. He should have told everyone about her crawling into his bed last week because _boo hoo, Lincoln, I suffered a rather vexing nightmare and wish not to be alone, may I be permitted to spend the remainder of the night with you? I don't snore or wet, I promise. _He couldn't bring himself to do that, though. He actually had a little thing called compassion...though around here, that was more of a flaw than an asset.

Ten minutes later, his sisters drifted in and started pulling their jackets on. Lincoln sighed, got up from the armchair, and slipped his phone into his pocket. Outside, pale morning light streaked the cobalt sky and the trees shook in the biting breeze. Most of the leaves were all down now, strewn across front laws and heaped in gutters. The walk to school was uneventful, and he was so deep in thought the whole way that upon arriving, he could barely remember any of it. Shadows pooled in the covered promenade and the flag snapped crisply atop its pole. He stopped on the concrete skirt edging the facade of the building and looked up at it, his heartbeat picking up and his stomach spinning end over end like a drunk falling down the stairs. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled and sloppily folded clump of papers and separated them. Three letters, all alike but different. At some point today, he would put them all into a single master letter.

He scanned them, killing time, then went inside. The halls were nearly deserted at this hour, and the only people he met were three girls on their way to the cafeteria and Mr. Lucas, the civics teacher. Everyone called him One-Eye because his left eye was glass. Not an overly inventive insult, but what can you really expect from a bunch of seventh graders?

Before hitting his locker, he walked casually past Room 212, hoping for a glimpse of Ms. DiMartino, but the door was closed and the lights off. He turned left down a short hall flanking the gym, then left at another that eventually brought him to his locker. He took his books out and spent the next ten minutes sitting in the library, waiting for the bell to ring. When it did, he went back to Room 212 ahead of everyone else and stopped outside, his heart blasting. Alright, he told himself, just keep your head down, okay?

'Kay.

He went in and walked to his seat. Ms. DiMartino, sitting at her desk, filled the corner of his eye, and he thought he saw her stiffen. He resisted the urge to turn and look at her. Was she watching? It kind of looked like she was.

Sitting, he opened his book so he'd have an excuse for not looking up.

No class, no event, had ever taken longer. Every minute stretched into forever and within five minutes, the air stale and unbreathable. Ms. DiMartino stood in front of the board and talked about the battle of Gettysburg, her voice unsteady and cracking here and there. Was she nervous? About him? He started to glance up and see, but forced himself not to. Either way, it was the most beautiful sound in the world, and he let it carry him away like a warm, tropical tide.

When it was over, he closed his book, got to his feet, and crossed to the door. At the last minute, he broke and glanced at Ms. DiMartino just in time to catch her glancing at him. Lincoln's heart jumped into his throat and she snapped her eyes away, her chest heaving. He hesitated, then went out into the hall.

Either she was afraid of him...or she _did _feel the same way he did.

Guess I'll find out later.

The rest of the day passed like frozen molasses. At lunch, he gathered with Clyde, Rusty, and Poppa Wheelie and picked at his food. At the next table over, Chandler and Girl Jordan sat to one another and talked. At one point, Girl Jordan shot him a sly, intent little look and Lincoln's stomach quivered. It was only vaguely similar to the one Ms. DiMartino gave him the day they kissed, but close enough that it put him in mind of her. He sucked a deep breath and looked down at his tray. Sickly looking beef patty, dry corn, soggy slice of white bread, brownie so hard you could take out an elected official with it (sniff _this_, President Biden).

Lana's moldy pizza would make a better lunch, he thought.

His next class was math. Since his grades were exactly average, he couldn't afford to wool-gather; he was a boy walking a thin, slippery line, and one tiny misstep would send him plummeting into failure...and possibly summer school. Even though his mind was a million miles away from algebra and fractions, he followed Lynn's mantra and sucked it up and powered through.

After math came English, another class he had no wiggle room in. He spent half of it staring out the window and fondly stroking the memory of kissing Ms. DiMartino and the rest playing catch up.

Last was study hall, where he usually did all of his homework. Today, he fanned all three letters out on the desk and composed a fourth, taking the best elements and stitching them together until he had as full and complete a record of his feelings as he could get. At the end of class, he folded it neatly, slid it into his breast pocket, and carried his books to his locker; he had homework, but he could let that slide for now. Clyde walked up just as he closed the door. "Hey, buddy," the black boy said, "wanna hang out?"

Leave it to Clyde to wanna get together when he had something else to do. "Can't. I'm busy."

"Darn," Clyde said, "I was hoping we could play _Steal That Car: Joplin, Missouri." _

They were walking toward the main doors now, kids streaming by on either side of them. "Sorry," Lincoln said, "maybe tomorrow."

Outside, Clyde started home, and Lincoln paused at the flagpole to check his phone. In his lovelorn haze, he totally neglected to factor his sisters into his plan. There was no telling how long this was going to take and he might be late picking them up. He'd give it twenty minutes, and if he wasn't on his way, he'd text Lisa. She was the only one he trusted enough to put in charge. Or Lucy. He'd figure that out when the time came.

Looking warily left and right to make sure no one was watching, he went around the side of the building and followed the western wall to the employee parking lot wedged between the gym and the athletic field. Ms. DiMartino's car faced the bleachers and Lincoln went to it. He stood by the rear bumper with his arms crossed, then realized that probably looked really suspicious; if she saw him from afar, she might think he was stalking her or something. He crossed to the front and sat down on the concrete dividing slab separating the space from the grass beyond. His stomach churned and he drew his knees to his chest like a heroin addict withdrawing on the bathroom floor.

He expected to wait in suspense for half an hour, but five minutes after he sat, the cick of approaching heels sounded, and his heart stopped. He looked up just as Ms. DiMartino appeared and fished her keys out of her purse. Her eyes were fixed on what she was doing and she didn't notice him.

Moment of truth.

Taking a deep breath, he got shakily to his feet. Ms. DiMartino inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. He was hoping she'd see him first, but she didn't, and he spoke. "Ms. DiMartino?"

She jumped a foot, and when she registered who it was, fear pooled in her eyes. "Lincoln?" There was a tremble in her voice, her tone one of a woman encountering something alien and unexpected, but, and maybe this was wishful thinking, not entirely unwelcome. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to talk," he said.

She sighed. "Lincoln, we've already -"

"Please?" he blurted. The note of desperation in his voice made him blush, and he instinctively looked down at his shoes. "I just want to talk."

Ms. DiMartino regarded him thoughtfully, her lips a tight, white slash and her forehead crinkled anxiously. Her dark eyes raged with indecision, and a pained look settled over her features. "Fine," she said, "but not here."

Without another word, she climbed behind the wheel and pulled the door closed. Lincoln vacillated for a moment…

...then opened the passenger door, took a deep breath, and slipped in.


	6. No Going Back

**IDK: I don't know, I'm kind of like Mr. Magoo - I stumble blindly around and come close to dying horribly every step of the way, but it (usually) comes out alright in the end. **

**anonymous789: I want to get this story done so I can post the rest of Reeling in the Years (finally done writing), but another part wants to stretch it out. **

Staring straight ahead and waging civil war upon herself, Maya DiMartino clutched the wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white. Lincoln filled her periphery, and not turning to look at him head on took so much effort that sweat sprang to her forehead.

They were driving south on Main Street, past the town bank and the Union Hotel. The feeble afternoon light was draining from the day and people rushed up and down the sidewalks to finish their errands before dark. Outside the barber shop, a group of old men played checkers, and across the way, a meter maid slapped a parking ticket on the windshield of a Toyota Tacoma, the wind rustling her pleated blue skirt around her knobby knees.

_Tell him to leave you alone...be cruel if you have to. _

Maya's eyes darted to the boy in the passenger seat. Like her, he faced forward with a look of strained neutrality. His hands rested in his lap, slightly trembling with nerves. Her heart bounced and she flicked her gaze away. She'd been telling herself that for two days now. Be cruel. Break his heart. Do whatever it takes to keep this from going any farther than it already has. That first night, following the kiss they shared, she sat on the living room couch with a pillow clutched to her chest and tears standing in her eyes, upset because she hurt him, upset because this was her fault, hating herself for letting this happen...and hating herself for wanting to do it again. All that afternoon and evening, Lincoln's face followed her, and when she stopped, the taste of his mouth coated her tongue, rolling her middle and exciting her passions in a way that disgusted her. She recalled the boyish way he trembled as her tongue made love to his, his body overloading with sensations and hers responding, her core expanding, slickening, preparing for illicit penetration, and her body ached with fever. She returned again and again to the angelic glow of his face in the afternoon sun, like a sign from God, and to his eyes. She couldn't get them out of her head. So soft, warm, and loving.

Then she remembered his tears and the husky inflection in his voice when she sent him away, and her stomach knotted so hard she doubled over. She hugged the pillow tighter, and after a while, she allowed herself to imagine it was him she was holding, her eyes peering into his eyes, her lips touching his lips, his body pressed needily against his body. Her self-loathing intensified and she tossed it away.

She barely slept that night, alternating between wishing he was with her and scolding herself for wanting a teenage boy; it was sick, it was illegal, and it was...it was just wrong, okay?

But wrong or not, her treacherous heart pulled her toward him even as her brain pulled away. She was in crisis and if she didn't quash this now, it would wind up somewhere it shouldn't.

Yesterday morning, when he accosted her in the classroom before the morning bell, she tried to lash out, to push him away, to ruin any chances they had of ever being anything but teacher and student, but she faltered.

She couldn't.

For the rest of the day, she kicked herself in the rear for her weakness, but after everyone else had left and she was alone in the classroom, she began to wonder...was it weakness, or did she flag on purpose? Did she do it on a whim just to spare him? By the end of the day, she decided she hadn't...that deep down, she didn't _want _to ruin the chances of them being something more.

_But he's a child! _her mind screamed.

Well, yes…

_You just got out of an abusive marriage, you're lonely, your views on love, intimacy, and men are warped, you're not thinking clearly. Don't do this. God, don't do this._

All of those things were true. She _was _lonely, but she was afraid of men. Lincoln was not a man, he was a boy, and in her misguided heart, that made him safe. The power dynamic between her and Norman skewered in his favor. He was bigger, stronger, older, and wiser. With Lincoln, it was reversed. She was older, she was wiser, she was bigger (though, admittedly, not by much). He was far too young and forthright to hide dark secrets behind a charming mask the way Norman had; perhaps it was merely an illusion, but she had the high ground here, and that was comforting. She didn't harbor the same worries with him that she did with men like Coach Sowell.

In a way, Lincoln was the perfect man.

_But he's not a man. _

No, he wasn't. He also wasn't really a child either. He was in-between.

_Because that makes it so much better. _

She replayed their kiss, and the light, bubbly feeling in her stomach superseded the critical voice in her head. It might be wrong, but it didn't _feel _that way. It felt _good_,

And really, it didn't hurt anybody. He wanted it just as badly as she did. Yes, she made the first physical move and you could argue that she coerced him into it, but that was far from the truth. The soul-stirring letter he wrote her was the work of a heart that knew exactly what it wanted, and putting it in her mailbox was as clear a statement of intent to obtain it as a Congressional declaration of war. She wasn't forcing him, nor was she using her position of authority to coax or influence him. Morally, then, she had done nothing wrong.

Legally, on the other hand, she had...something _very _wrong. It was called...actually, what _would _it be called? They only kissed. Did that classify as statutory rape? She wasn't sure, so she got her laptop, sat cross-legged on the couch, and looked it up. She searched and searched but couldn't find a clear answer regarding kissing alone. It _seemed_ that because of the teacher-student dynamic, it was illegal, but each article she read covered only sexual relationships. What they did existed in a legal gray area, though she was certain she would face charges or, at the very least, dismissal from her job, if it came out.

What the law said and what her heart said were two vastly different things, and she knew herself well enough to know that if push came to shove, the latter would prevail. It was up to her to see that it didn't, for his sake _and _hers. Even if their age difference wasn't a stumbling block right now, it would be in very short order. She was a grown woman and Lincoln a boy. A boy his age, even if they're mature and responsible, is just not ready for the type of relationship she envisioned. Her end goal was to marry, start a family, and spend the rest of her life with someone. What fourteen year old wants that? Not many. They're in the bloom of youth and settling down is a tiny blip on the horizon, if it is visible at all. Even if he were, hypothetically, open to a serious committed relationship, he was still mentally and emotionally growing. A person his age is like a caterpillar slowly transforming in the womb of a chrysalis. Who would he be when he emerged? The same person he was now, or different?

She wasn't committed to marrying him and having his children, but these were questions that needed to be asked upfront, and for hours that night, as she lay in bed, she did, going through every single one she could dredge up. The point was to sour her heart on the idea of them being together, but her dilemma was still unresolved when she fell asleep. At dawn, she came awake to the alarm and lay where she was until the snooze went off. She got up, showered, and dressed in a dark purple skirt and a white blouse. Standing in front of the mirror, she brushed her hair until it was silky smooth, then applied lipstick and eyeliner before realizing she was doing it for LIncoln.

Sigh.

Blowing a haggard puff of air, she turned the light out and went into the kitchen, where she brewed a pot of coffee. _Now what? _she asked herself as she waited.

Ignore him?

That wasn't likely to work. She could try, but did she want to?

She was still pondering that question at the end of the day when she went to leave school and Lincoln surprised her...was asking it even now as she guided the Focus down Main on an aimless jaunt to nowhere. She shifted her eyes to the side and studied him; his soft jaw line, his pink lips, his cute freckles.

Driving around with him in the passenger seat made her nervous. Anyone could see them and suspect. Maybe she was driving him home, who's to say? She knew differently, however, and her guilty conscious fanned the flames of paranoia. Where could they go to talk? Her house? No, that was a bad idea. It needed to be somewhere private, a place where they couldn't be seen together. She searched her brain. There _was _a dirt road outside of town that filtered into a meadow overlooking the river. She and Elena found it by accident one day right before she moved here when they got lost. No one would bother them there. '

She pulled into a Texaco, did a U-turn, and started back the way they came. Neither one spoke on the way, the atmosphere choked with tension. Lincoln took his phone out and texted someone, and Maya tried to think of something to break the awkward silence with, but came up empty handed. What could she possibly say? _So...did you do the homework I assigned you? _

A rusting green trestle bridge carried Main over the Royal River, where it became Route 29. Tall pines pressed close to the gravel shoulders and the highway curved gently to the left. Royal Woods, backlit against the setting sun, disappeared from the rearview mirror, and the forest swallowed them whole, creating the illusion of isolation.

The silence became unbearable, and Maya wetted her lips. "Who did you text?" She meant to sound relaxed and conversational, but came across as edgy to her own ears.

"M-My sister," Lincoln said.

He didn't elaborate and she didn't push.

Two miles out, the wall of trees standing along the left hand side of the road parted to reveal a narrow, rocky lane. Maya slowed, waited for a tractor trailer pulling a load of timber to blast by in the other lane, then turned. The car shook and jostled as the tires dipped into ruts, and Lincoln gripped the handhold for dear life. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Somewhere to talk," Maya replied.

He nodded but didn't say anything.

A half mile later, a flat, grassy area opened up on the left, then sloped down to the riverbank. On the opposite shore, tall trees crowded the water's edge, the last dying rays of the sun falling through them in orange slats. Maya turned off the road, slowed, then braked. She cut the engine, and it ticked as it cooled.

So.

Here they were.

Had she ever been more conflicted about anything as she was about this? The closest thing she could compare it to was Norman. She loved him at the same time she hated him, feared him and revered him in equal measure, wanted him and wanted to be away from him. What she felt now was similar but not identical. Part of her wanted to shove Lincoln out the door and flee, and another wanted to take him in her arms and give him all the love in her heart, all the love that had been locked away since before she even left Norman.

What should she do?

That was the question of the day, and still, even now, she did not have an answer. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, not knowing what to say. Lincoln stared out the windshield, hands squirming in his lap, and his Adam's apple bobbed helplessly, putting her for some reason in mind of a boy drowning. He most likely had little to no experience in matters such as this and had even less of an idea where to start than she did, and her heart went out to him. She wished there was something she could do, some magical incantation she could invoke to make everything right - whatever _right _was - but there was not.

Letting her hands fall to her lap, she sat back in the seat and fixed her gaze on the swirling surface of the river. A light mist clung to it like smoke, and an orchestra of crickets soothed the pooling twilight.

When Lincoln suddenly moved, she cringed like a skittish dog, sure, on some level, that despite everything she had surmised about him, she was wrong, again, and he was going to hurt her.

Instead, he pulled a folded sheet of notebook paper from his pocket and opened it with a crinkle. She watched curiously, first from the corner of her eye, then twisting around to face him. He gazed absently down at the page, visibly summoning his courage, then cleared his throat. "Ms. DiMartino," he started, "since the first time I laid eyes on you, I have been in love with you."

Maya's heart staggered and tumbled into her stomach. Her jaw fell open and she immediately snapped it closed again. Love? He was a child, what did he know about love?

"I love your smile, I love the musical quality of your voice, I love the way the light glosses your hair and the way your eyes sparkle with passion when you teach. It's clear that teaching is something you love and watching you do it is captivating. I think _I really wish she would look at me that way_."

He drew a cumbersome breath and let it out in a shaky rush. Maya's heart gently pounded and a hot blush crept across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

"I love your beauty and I love your warmth. I can list all the things about you that I love, but that would be a lot. It's everything. I love everything about you and that means I love _you_. When you kissed me, my entire world changed. I used to not know who I was or what I wanted in life. Each one of my sisters, and my friends too, have clearly defined personalities and identities, but I've always been kind of there. I'm not really good at anything and don't have any special interests. Since we kissed, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. You're in my every thought and all of my dreams. Not being with you is like not having air, and I think I found my calling that day. It's...it's to love you."

Blood roared in Maya's temples. Her higher reasoning objected - he's a boy, he doesn't know what he's saying, it's wrong, it's disgusting, it's illegal - but her heart overflowed with emotion. Her head spun with the beautiful absurdity of it all, and she had the odd, and not wholly welcome, sensation of falling.

"I understand if you can't love me back," he continued, a heartbreaking quaver in his voice, "I really do. It will hurt me, but I do understand every argument you have. You being older, me being a kid...those are all good points and if you can't return my feelings, okay. If what we shared the other day was a mistake, then it was a mistake, I'm not angry and I don't hold it against you. I just want you to know that I do love you and I will always cherish our kiss. It might be a mistake, but even though it'll hurt me for a long time, I don't regret it."

He laid the letter in his lap and looked up for the first time. The raw, tender set of his eyes, and his wan smile, left no doubt about his sincerity. He meant every word.

Taking his face in her hands and kissing him deeply was not a conscious decision; the spirit swept her and she was powerless to stand against it. All of her doubts, all of her misgivings, and perhaps, too, all of her logic melted away and she gave herself over to feeling. Lincoln was stunned into immobility, but quickly recovered; he cupped her cheek in his palm and returned the kiss, his tongue urgently lapping hers. His fingers slipped into her hair, and his nails lightly grazed her scalp - tremors tore through her body and she reflexively gasped for air, the sweet taste of his breath filling her lungs and intoxicating her. Mingled saliva, his and hers, dribbled down her chin; the kiss was sloppier now, looser, more needy. Lincoln's fingertips stroked down the sides of her throat, reveling in her like a pagan worshiping his goddess.

Shortly, they moved to the back seat where they had more room. Maya's body burned with repressed desire, and she knew, vaguely, that there was no going back now. She guided Lincoln back against the door and mounted him, the kiss never breaking. His bulge prodded between her legs, and her mind scrambled with delight.

Tilting her head to the side and grappling with his tongue for dominance, she ran her hands over his chest, his supple young body shaking under her palms and his heart slamming like a drum. She kicked out of one shoe, then the other, her hands sliding under his shirt, praising his fevered skin. She kneaded his muscles like a playful kitten, and when a shudder wracked his body, she smiled against his lips. He held her face and brushed his thumbs over the ridge of her cheekbones, then fumbled clumsily at the front of her blouse. She paused to hurriedly unbutton it then went back to drinking him in with her hands. He pushed it down one shoulder, then the strap of her bra. Reaching behind her, she undid the clasps with anxious fingers. It came loose, and she slowly pulled it off and tossed it aside, the fleshy globes of her pert breasts falling free; the satiny fabric of her blouse scraped her aching nipples, and the cool air on her burning skin sent shivers down her spine.

Lincoln stared up at her with a comical expression of wonderment that teased a girlish giggle from her throat. Was it strange that she felt drunk and fuzzy? Was it wrong that simply being exposed to his beautiful eyes turned her on so much she leaked? She tried, hazily, to remember how it used to be with Norman, but it was so long ago. Did she feel then as she did now? Did she glow this hot? Did her heart knock so hard her breast trembled? As Lincoln caressed her with his eyes, she basked in his gaze like a woman in warm sunlight after a long winter wrapped in wool. Her hips were rocking lightly and mindlessly against his bulge, each poke of his center into hers driving her deeper into lust.

Her body, on fire and only getting hotter, thirsted for his touch, and when he made no move to give it, she took his hands in hers and guided them to her breasts. His eyes widened when his palms smooshed her nipples and a jolt went through him as though he'd just touched a live electrical wire. His hands spasmodically closed around them, and his heat soaked into her, thawing the ice in her marrow. She squirmed from side to side to give him better access, her nipples pulsing, and Lincoln gingerly squeezed, unsure of himself.

Maya glided her hands over his chest and stared lovingly down at him, her teeth brushing her lower lip. Even obscured by the ashen gloom pooling in the car, he was radiant, and her heart twinged sharply. Leaning over him, her hair skimming his face, she kissed the tip of his nose, the words coming before she could stop them but feeling so good, so cathartic, on her lips. "I love you too, Lincoln."

She kissed him again, and they surrendered their hearts, minds, and bodies to the other. She unbuttoned his jeans with unsteady fingers, breath bated like a girl, and he teased her nipple with his tongue, hands gripping her butt, pushing her skirt over her panties, fingers hooking into the waistband. She pulled his zipper down and pushed the flaps apart as though opening a present. His erection made a sizable tent his briefs and her heartbeat quickened at the sight. Ragged exhalations burst from her throat and Lincoln's tongue lapped faster, making it hard to think, move, anything. She curled her fingers around it and sucked a sharp intake of breath at its dank heat. Lincoln kissed her breast, her areola, the valley between her mounds.

Slipping her fingers into his underwear, she yanked down, and his penis - tall and thick and throbbing with passion - came free. His fragrant warmth found her nose, and though she wanted to take her time with him, to rediscover all the things she loved and missed about intimacy, smelling him flipped a primal switch in her brain.

She needed it so bad it hurt, and she couldn't wait a minute longer.

Hiking up her skirt, she pulled her sodden panties to her knees. Lincoln watched dazedly, his eyes misty and his lips, kissed pink and raw, parted. She lifted up, rubbed her legs together, and peeled her underwear off with her big toe. Laying her hands flat on his chest, she shifted, and her love-swollen lips slipped over his head. He gasped and held onto her hips, teeth bared in ecstasy so intense it might as well have been pain, She swiveled her butt until he pressed against her opening, then paused to look at his red, upturned face.

This was it, she thought, the point of no return. There was no coming back from this. She was not merely giving him her body, but her love as well, and her commitment too. Once they crossed this final line, she could not undo it. Her heart was a fragile thing and had been broken before. She spent eight months terrified to give it again, but here she was now, poised on the precipice.

For a moment, her resolve wavered, then her eyes locked with Lincoln's, and she made up her mind now and forever. Taking his hands in hers, she weaved her fingers through his, held them above his head, and sank herself onto his penis. It filled her like iron sheathed in silk, spreading her walls, and together they moaned. He bore down hard on her hands, and she squeezed. Bending over, she fused their lips together and kissed him fervently as she slid slowly up then down again, forcing herself to be gentle; it was his first time, and after so many cold, lonely nights, it might as well have been hers too. A few strokes in, she was close to climax, urged on by Lincoln's twitching, narrowed eyes and animal pants. His tip raked her walls, stoked her flames, kissed the back of her womb, the pressure building in her stomach, bubbling up, consuming her entire being.

She broke the kiss and rested her forehead against his, her hips flying faster, faster, the friction too much to take. "Oh," Lincoln spat in panicked tones, "I'm...I'm gonna cum."

"Cum for me," she panted, needing to feel his scared and innermost essence in her scared and innermost place.

His dick grew bigger and hotter, pushing her hips apart with a red, blinding sting, then he released with a shivering cry. His bubbling load spewed into her middle, and she came undone; lips squashed to his cheek, closed eyelids fluttering, short, quick breaths, Maya's body erupted with white hot climax, her orgasm leveling everything in its path like a nuclear blast. Her back arched deeply, her passage closed around Lincoln's still pumping dick, and her butt cheeks clenched with the force of her end. She jerked like a woman in the throes of a seizure and bucked with dumb, uncaring abandon.

When she came back to herself, she lay limply on top of Lincoln, both of them sweating, gasping, and trembling. She kissed the crook of his neck, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she melted into him, a dazed but happy smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Later, after cuddling and cleaning up, she drove him home, one hand on the wheel and the other holding his. Full dark had fallen and the streetlamps lining the sidewalk shone with muddled light. For the first time in years - since long before she left Norman - she was genuinely happy; she felt light, airy, and good, emotions that were so foregin now that feeling them was strange and exhilarating.

At his house, she came to a stop at the curb and put the car in park. Lincoln lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each one of her knuckles. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes you will," she said and kissed his wrist.

They leaned into each other and kissed, then he grabbed his backpack and got out. She watched him cross the darkened lawn, and only pulled away when he went through the door.

On the way to her own home, a hateful little part of her tried to scold her for what she'd done. _You gave him your heart and told him you love him...what if he's like Norman?_

She ignored the question. Maybe later, she could entertain self-doubt, but right now, she was too busy soaring over the moon. She felt like a teenager again, and all of the suffering she endured with Norman didn't matter; in fact, she could almost believe that it never happened at all.

Loving again, and being loved, was such a beautiful thing, and she'd forgotten how much she adored it. Nothing could ruin this warm bliss in her chest.

Absolutely nothing.

* * *

For three days, Norman Derringer plotted.

He arrived in Detroit late Friday, wired despite his road weariness; he stopped only to gas up, hit fast food drive-thrus, and twice to sleep in the car, once in Utah and again just east of St. Louis. He paid no attention to the changing landscape around him, blind to the Mojave giving way to the Rockies, unaware of the mountains turning to prairie, focused entirely on the road unfolding ahead...and Maya beyond. It was past midnight and raining when he got in, and he cruised slick surface streets looking for lodgings before settling on a cheap hotel six blocks from Elena's building. His room was on the third floor, a cramped space with matted carpets, nicotine stained ceilings, and scarred furniture: A single bed, a table and chair by the white curtained windows, and a dresser with an ancient Sanyo TV on top. Mold grew along the top of the tub, the mirror over the sink was cracked, and the toilet hardly flushed, but he didn't care about those things. He didn't even care about the lingering scent of mildew and stale cigarettes; he was a machine, a Terminator with one purpose and one purpose only.

That first night, he lay atop the covers and stared up at the ceiling, where a bar of harsh orange light cast by a street lamp cleaved through the darkness. His mind raced a mile a minute, and pent-up energy crackled in his chest. The temptation to go after Elena _now_ whispered in his ear, but he ignored it. He was close to getting his hands on Maya and a slip up now was unacceptable; he had to be careful and do this right.

His exhaustion finally caught up with him before dawn and he crossed into unconsciousness like flipping a switch. The next morning, he woke at ten to the sounds of the city. As soon as he came awake, his mind started to work. Getting up, he sat his duffel bag on the bed, unzipped it, and took out a change of clothes for the day. His movements were slow and robotic, his eyes sightless and faraway, lending him the appearance of a man so lost in thought he'd need a compass and three search parties to lead him back.

Dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, he tucked his gun into the small of his back and left the room. A long, carpeted hall lit by evenly spaced lights on the wall lead to the elevators. He took the stairs to the lobby, where a black woman sat behind the desk, and went out the main doors. Outside, ghetto niggers stood on corners, perched on stoops, and shucked and jived on their way to the welfare office.

Elena's building looked just as it had on Google Maps: Brick, boxy, and dilapidated. He parked at the opposite curb, the nose of the Vic pointed south, and settled in for a long wait. Some cops despise protracted stake-outs, but not Derringer; once he set his mind on a task, he pursued it with dogged determination, even if that meant biding his time. His plan was simple - get Elena alone and make her talk - but the success of even the most facile plans rests entirely on execution. He needed to know her schedule, when she came and went, what she did, who she knew. That way, he could peg the opportune moment to strike.

After three hours, she came out and Derringer, hitherto slouched, sat up straight. Roughly 5'3 and closing in on two hundred pounds, if not more, Elena was as wide as she was tall and he recognized her instantly. She wore light blue hospital style scrubs with long white sleeves and her black hair in a ponytail. Derringer's eyes narrowed to hateful slits and his hands tightened on the wheel. _Elena's the most important person in my life, _Maya told him on one of their dates before they married. Their mother died when she was young and Elena took her place, setting aside her own life to raise her. The hazy tone of Maya's voice when she talked about her sister grated on his nerves, and on meeting the fat bitch, he instantly disliked her. She was trouble and he did his best to keep Maya away from her.

She turned right and started down the sidewalk, and pulling a tight U-turn, Derringer followed at a crawl, staying a hundred feet back so as not to spook her. At a corner bus stop, she plopped onto a bench, and Derringer drove on, then, out of sight, turned around and parked facing away from her. He stared intently into the rearview mirror, his loathing so great that he thrummed like a high tension wire. He was perilously close to taking her now, but he resisted; it was broad daylight on a busy street corner, too many witnesses, too many chances of being caught.

The bus showed up fifteen minutes later, its sides plastered with advertisements for lawyers and health care providers and black smoke belching from its exhaust. Elena boarded, and a minute later it took off again. It passed Derringer's position, and he fell in after, keeping two car lengths behind.

Three miles from her building, she got off at a vast hospital complex flanking both sides of the street and connected by an enclosed footbridge over the road. Derringer watched her hurry across the parking lot and disappear through the main entrance. It was three in the afternoon. Knowing hospitals with the intimacy of a law enforcement officer, he suspected that Elena's shift ended at eleven, but couldn't be sure.

A car horn honked behind him, and he realized he was stopped in the middle of the lane.

Later, he vowed as he drove away.

Later.

Back at the hotel, he sat on the bed and tried to bury himself in daytime TV, but his mind wandered. He was so close to Maya that he could almost smell her, like a frightened animal cowering in a bush. In a day, maybe two, he would have her again, and the promise of punishing her made his dick rock hard. He would take his time with the bitch, savor her pain and suffering. He'd strangle her to the point of death, then bring her back like a sparrow on a string; fuck her ass until it was raw and bloody; nick every square inch of her flesh with his knife, then rub salt into the wounds. His head spun with possibilities, each more titillating than the last, and his dick throbbed in anticipation.

At six, he had dinner at a McDonald's near the interstate, then killed time by seeing an action movie at the Palace Theater. Nothing in the film reminded him of Maya, but sitting in the cool, cave-like darkness, he thought of her anyway. He hadn't given much thought to her ultimate fate, but now he turned it over in his mind. In the beginning, he reckoned he'd make good on his promise to kill her. Presently, however, he wasn't so sure he wanted to. Maybe he should take her back to California with him; for all her faults and all she'd done to him, he still loved her, and the prospect of not having her anymore gave him pause. Could he live with himself letting her back into his home after what she did? Could he look at himself in the mirror knowing he was weak, that he allowed her such a strong hold on him?

Yes.

He could.

And that sickened him.

He'd kill her, he decided, as an act of willpower. No one controlled him, no one, and he would prove it to himself by wrapping his hands around Maya's throat and not letting go until she was as cold and unmoving as all the others.

The movie ended before eight, and Derringer drove aimlessly through the city, letting his mind drift. At ten-thirty, he returned to the hospital and parked across from the bus stop. A black man clutching a forty wrapped in a brown paper bag sat on the bench and an old woman in scrubs stood next to a stop sign, head bent over her cell phone. At ten 'til, Elena waddled out the door, and Derringer grinned to himself. Got'cha, bitch.

Just to be sure she didn't have any tricks up her sleeve, he followed the bus until it dropped her off where she got on. He sped up and got to her building five minutes ahead of her. She went inside, and that was that. This, he surmised, was her normal routine. It didn't leave much room for him to squeeze in, but an idea was already forming in the back of his mind. It was risky, but he was certain he could pull it off.

He waited twenty minutes, then got out of the car and crossed the street. A chilly wind swept up the avenue and rustled the trees; somewhere in the distance, bass heavy rap music blared from subwoofers, and Derringer gritted his teeth.

A smudged glass door provided access to the tile floored lobby. A set of stairs hugged the wall to the right and a bank of locking, cubby-sized mailboxes, each neatly labeled covered it to the left. He tested the door, found it open, and slipped inside. On the next level up, a black woman screamed at someone named T'Von to get his ass inside, and the closed-up smell of stale cooking turned Derringer's stomach.

Chin up and chest out, as though he had every right to be here, he climbed the steps. He did not show it, but his heartbeat accelerated and his stomach tightened with suspense.

On the second floor, trash littered the fraying, threadbare carpet and cracks, dings, and dents pockmarked the wall. The apartments were numbered 2A - 2W. He went up another flight of stairs and reached the Cs. Elena's was close to the stairwell, and someone trying to force their way in would be visible to anyone coming or going. He glared at the door, and all at once, something inside of him shifted, like a boulder teetering on the edge of a cliff. His breathing slowed, his heart stilled, and his vision went gray, and for a terrible moment, he was so close to kicking it in that every muscle in his body tensed. A door slammed at the end of the hall, snapping him out of it, and irrationally afraid he would lose control, he turned tail and fled down the steps, not stopping again until he was safely in the car.

Clutching the wheel, he took a series of deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

Hot anger broke in his chest, and flashing, he punched the horn, knocking a sharp, high pitched beep from its guts. Fuck this bullshit. For eight months he'd been spiraling because of Maya and her slut sister. The iron clad resolve he prided himself on was slipping and he didn't know from one minute to the next what he was going to do. Was this what they wanted? Was this their plan all along? To drive him crazy?

Deep down, he almost believed it was.

But the joke was on them.

Oh, it was on them.


	7. The Hard Way

Sunday morning, Lincoln Loud left the house after breakfast and walked ten blocks across Royal Woods. It was bright and unseasonably warm, and he wore jeans and a gray T-shirt with American Eagle emblazoned across the chest in white.

On the way, he stopped at a corner CVS in town and trawled the aisles for a gift for Maya. His first instinct was to get a box of chocolates and flowers, but that seemed kind of cliche. Then again, what _else _are you supposed to get your girlfriend? A tabloid and a pack of spearmint gum? He rounded an end cap and boom, there it was, the perfect present: A fluffy teddy bear holding a big, red heart boasting the word LOVE.

Bingo.

At the register, the cashier, an old Arab woman in a headscarf, scanned it. "12.50."

12.50?

It was at that point that he learned a valuable lesson: Love isn't cheap.

But it _is _worth it.

He paid with a twenty, shoved the change into his pocket, and grabbed the bag. Outside, people promenaded up and down the sidewalks, enjoying the unexpectedly temperate weather, and across the street, a couple of teeagers sat on the curb in front of the arcade drinking slushies and vaping. Clyde vaped sometimes in rebellion against his parents...though he defeated the purpose by never doing it in front of them or telling them he did it. Lincoln tried it once. Mango-avocado flavor. Almost made him puke. _Jesus, _he coughed, _what's next, liverwurst?_

_They actually have that, _Clyde said.

Alright, well, that's enough internet for me today.

From CVS, he walked north through golden sun showers, the bag swinging jauntily back and forth like a pendulum. He didn't know how to whistle (shameful secret #369.C) but he totally wanted to. Ever since Thursday night, he'd been in a state of nirvana that he didn't even know was possible, and nothing life had thrown at him shook it: Charles pissed on one of his shoes, Cliff crapped on his pillow, Lynn accidentally smashed him in the nuts with a football, and on the walk to school Friday, Lisa took sick and puked on the back of his shirt. Normally, after a couple days like that, he'd be on the verge of suicide (or homicide, depending on his mood), but not this time...and maybe never again. How could he be when he had something so wonderful in Maya? A grin touched his lips at the thought of her name. Was there any more beautiful? Could any other word make him feel warm and fuzzy inside?

Nope. He'd been speaking it aloud to himself for days, rolling it over his tongue and savoring the shape of it in his mouth. At school Friday, he wrote it over and over again in his notebook like that guy from The Shining (all work and no play…). In history, she stood in front of the board, talking in that light, musical voice of hers, and he watched her with dreamy eyes. Was it just him, or was her smile brighter? A happy glow emanated from her face, and when she turned her eyes on him, the corners of her lips spread in a sly, knowing simper that never failed to take his breath away. Without breaking her sermon, she came around the desk and sauntered toward him, the hypnotic swish of her hips commanding his attention. She stood next to him, eyes sweeping the room, and her closeness tightened Lincoln's throat. The fragrance of her perfume wrapped itself around him like a sensual hug, and her body heat broke over him in waves. He thought he could smell her arousal, but maybe it was his own.

She swayed slightly from side to side, her firm butt so teasingly close, and favored him from the corner of her eye. A Chesire smile crept across her face and her voice hilted, suggesting she was just as excited as he.

They had to be careful, but what's the fun in keeping a secret if you can't flaunt it a little?

He gripped the edge of the desk, bare inches from her rounded butt, and his fingers trembled with the urge to grab it. She darted her eyes from his face to his hand and back again, then turned away, intentionally brushing her rear over him. Desire deluged him in a lavaric flood, and he swallowed hard. She turned to face the class and sat daintily on the desk, her long, smooth legs crossing with a flourish. A light shade of red colored her cheeks and broadened cutely across the bridge of her nose. The other boys stared at her, but the show was all for him, and he couldn't wait to see more.

But wait he did. Mom and Dad were pissed that he let Lisa, Lucy, Lola, and Lana walk home alone, and since they were both working late again, he had to pick them up after school, which prevented him from seeing Maya until Saturday. Saturday morning, however, Mom surprised everyone with a special treat: A visit to Aunt Ruth's. Instead of spending the day with Maya, he spent it sandblasting corns from a sixty-two year old woman's feet.

And it was _torture_. He assumed that having Maya would lessen the fire in her soul, but if anything, it only fed the flames. She was still the only think he could think about, and every atom in his body ached for her. Saturday night, they talked on the phone, and the breathy sound of her voice increased his longing. He dreamed of her, and when he woke at half past seven, three hours early for a Sunday, he sprang instantly out of bed and started getting ready. He told his parents he, Rusty, and Poppa Wheelie were going to the park, and Mom gave him until two. That wasn't very long, but every second he had belonged to Maya.

Twenty minutes after leaving CVS, he crossed Jointer Avenue and stood in front of Maya's house, a tiny Cape Cod with gray siding and a pitched roof, its porch nearly hidden by spreading shrubbery. Her car sat in the driveway and the front windows had been thrown open to admit the breeze, lacy white curtains rustling like restive spirits.

Going up the walk, he climbed the stairs, opened the storm door, and knocked. A wind chime tinkled and potted plants hanging from the porch ceiling moved from side to side as if pushed by unseen hands. The back of his neck prickled and he glanced over one shoulder, then the other. No one was there but he felt exposed and vulnerable nevertheless. There is nothing inherently wrong or illegal about visiting your teacher outside of school hours - maybe he was going to clean out her gutters - but what he and Maya were doing _was _illegal, and if they were caught, she'd get in trouble. She was paranoid about being seen together in public, and he was worse: He didn't want to lose her...and _really _didn't want it to be his fault.

On the other hand, how far could the police get if he denied everything? Most of those teachers you see charged with sex crimes on the news were only there because the student they were seeing ratted them out, maybe because they were mad over something (_how dare you fail me after I sucked your dick last night!_) or because the cops got involved and they got scared. Lincoln didn't know how he'd react if the police showed up at his house and started asking about his relationship with Maya, but he sure didn't see himself snitching on her.

How can you do that to someone you love? His first instinct would be to protect her no matter _how _scared he was.

Now, if she flunked him and he had to go to summer school, then yeah, he'd sell her out in a heartbeat.

Joking,

He knocked again. Muffled footsteps approached and he remembered the teddy bear still in its bag. He hurriedly pulled it out, and its leg got caught in one of the handholds. Stupid thing. He yanked, but it didn't come. The knob rattled and unlocked, and he yanked again, finally getting it free. Now he was left holding the bag, literally, and that looked kind of strange. He jammed it into his pocket and looked up, winded, just as Maya filled the frame in a white, summery dress that clung to her lithe form. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and bright red lipstick coated her lips; impossibly, she was even more ravishing than he had ever seen her, and her impish smile - and the things it promised - made him weak in the knees.

"Hi," she said happily.

"Hi," Lincoln replied. He again remembered the bear and held it up. "I got you this."

She took it and looked it over, her face lighting up like a rheostat lamp. She pressed her lips together to dim her smile and choked off a dreamy laugh. "Thank you," she said, "it's very sweet."

"I saw it and thought of you," he said.

"I love it."

She stepped aside and he crossed the threshold. A cozy, comfortably appointed living room opened off to his right. A white loveseat and glass coffee table faced a wall-mounted television set and framed photos, knicknacks, and other trinkets occupied a place of honor on the mantle. The carpet was beige and the walls a light cream color that lent the room a bright, cheery air. A dining room consisting of a table and chair set separated the den from the kitchen; a portrait of Jesus Christ pointing to a burning, thorny heart on his chest tracked Lincoln from its spot on the wall, looking disappointed either in Lincoln's sinful ways...or his own constipation. The warm, woody scent of incense found his nose and he breathed reflexively in.

Maya closed the door behind her and locked it. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

"Sure," he said.

"I have Coke, lemonade, or...I think I have tea too, but I may have finished it."

"Lemonade's fine," he said.

She ran her hand over his shoulder, and he turned to kiss it. She smiled, caressed his cheek, and went into the kitchen, setting the bear on the dining room table as she passed. Lincoln admired her butt, then blushed when she glanced over her shoulder and caught him. She flashed a smile, then disappeared around the corner, her eyes flicking seductively up and down his body. He swallowed hard and let out a pent-up breath. He went back to the feeling of her center gripping his dick, and he stirred.

While he waited for her to come back, he walked up to the mantle and studied its contents. In the center, like a cherished religious icon, was a picture of a Hispanic woman with short, curly gray hair and glasses. She appeared to be in her fifties, maybe even older. Next to it was a studio portrait of a younger woman; despite being overweight, she looked enough like Maya that he judged them to be sisters.

Maya came in and handed him a glass of lemonade. He took it with a thanks and lifted it to his lips; the liquid was cold and sweet and good. "Who's that?" he asked and nodded at the photo of the older woman.

"My mother," Maya said, then missed a beat. "She died when I was a teenager."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Maya took a sip of her own lemonade. "It's alright. I'm over it now. As much as I can be."

"Who's that?" he asked of the other woman.

A fond smile played across her lips. "That's my older sister Elena." It was clear from the tone of her voice that Elena meant a great deal to her.

"You guys close?" he asked.

Maya nodded. "Yeah. After mom died, Elena dropped out of college to take care of me and, in a way, she's kind of been like a second mother."

They drifted to the loveseat. Maya folded her legs underneath herself and snuggled up to him, head resting on his chest, and he slipped his arm around her shoulders. On Thursday evening, he experienced what he thought was the greatest feeling he would ever know, but this, cuddling with Maya, rivaled it. She fit into him like a puzzle piece (there's that old cliche again), and he felt _complete_.

She told him all about Elena and their life in California. Her face, so recently shining, took on a somber cast, and her limpid eyes swirled with storm clouds. "And then I met...my ex husband."

Maya was as expressive as she was beautiful, her heart candid and transparent, for better or worse, and he knew in an instant that this was a painful subject for her. He leaned the side of his head against hers, communicating that he was there for her, and she slid her hand under his shirt, her fingertips kissing his flesh. She bit her nails lightly into him not, he thought, to stimulate him, but as a nervous tick. "I don't really want to talk about it," she said. The haunted quality of her voice plunged into his heart like an icepick, and he was suddenly afraid...afraid of what was in her past, afraid of what she had endured. He looked at her from the corner of his eye and his lips fell into a sad frown; she was so angelic, so loving, so everything right and good, and the thought of her suffering in any way cut him deeply.

"You don't have to," he assured her. He ghosted his thumb over her cheek, and she leaned into his touch like a grateful cat.

She kissed his wrist, then turned her head to look up at him with those gem-like eyes. They welled with emotion, and Lincoln couldn't tell if it was pain or something else. "One day I'll tell you," she said, "but not now. I don't want to think about that." She flicked her gaze shyly to his chest. "I want to think of you...and us...and being happy."

"Then think of that," he said.

Maya smiled wickedly, and his heartbeat skipped. She pressed her hand to his heart and pushed herself up to his lips. His breath caught and she kissed him slowly, poignantly, her tongue grazing like a diffident though sincere pronouncement. He held the side of her face in his hand and kissed her back, more forcefully to show that his commitment was total, his love unerring.

They kissed and touched for what may have been moments or hours; nether knew, nor did they care. They explored each other's bodies with the leisure of young lovers who have forever. Getting to her knees, butt thrust into the air, Maya pushed his shirt up over his chest and trailed quick, sizzling kisses across his stomach, her hand cupping and petting him through his jeans, and Lincoln skimmed his nails over her bowed back in wide, languid circles. She shifted off the couch and knelt between his knees, her messy hair veiling her simmering eyes, then unzipped his jeans. Lincoln's breath hitched in expectation, and picking with exaggerated care, as though he were invaluably precious, she pulled his underwear down and freed his dick, a purr trembling in the back of her throat. She wrapped her hand around it, tossed her hair out of her face, and bent over to ghost her lips across the tip. Her breath was hot and dank, and Lincoln's heart jumped the tracks like a speeding steam engine.

She kissed it and stroked her hand up and down. A shiver of delight went through him, and Maya's lips curled up in an evil grin. "You like that?" she panted.

"Yeah," Lincoln replied.

Tilting her head to one side, she looked up into his eyes and teasingly swirled the head with her tongue. Lincoln brushed his hand through her hair, and she went down slow. The wet heat of her mouth was incredible, and a moan exploded from Lincoln's lips. She made a muffled sound of pleasure and pulled back until everything was out except the tip. His shaft, red with passion, glistened with her saliva and quivered needily. She went down with relish, then back up, her motions smooth and fluid. Lincoln ran his hands through her hair and tried to regulate his breathing; he was already close and if he didn't hold back, he'd bust.

Sensing this, she increased her speed, head bobbing up and down, spit and precum oozing from her lips. Lincoln threw his head back swallowed, trying to think of something else to stay his forming load but unable to escape the sensations of Maya's lips and tongue. He felt himself starting to go and his heart clutched. "Stop," he said barely above a whisper.

She went faster, and that was all he could take: His orgasm burst from him in an eye narrowing torrent and pumped into Maya's mouth. She slowed by degrees, taking every last drop, then crawled onto the couch and laid her head on his chest.

Aftershocks cut through him and he shuddered, making her laugh. "Did you like that?" she asked.

Lincoln nodded but could not speak.

"So did I." She took him in her hand and idly stroked him with her thumb. Before long, he was hard again, and she peppered his neck with excited kisses, her breathing ragged.

"Let's go in the bedroom," she said.

* * *

Monday evening, Norman Derringer ate dinner at a rundown Applebee's in a strip mall on the edge of South Detroit. The tables were sticky, the floor littered with crumpled napkins and the remnants of meals past, and the yeasty reek of cheap beer permeated everything. A group of middle aged men occupied a booth down from Derringer's, and as they got drunker, they got louder; they laughed, teased each other, and hit on the waitress like a bunch of teenagers, and Derringer sneered over his baby back ribs. He oughta go over there and make them shut up.

If he didn't have a prior engagement, he would; he'd been in a foul mood all day his self-control was wavering. It started the night before. Lying in bed, bathed in orange light, thoughts of Maya raced through his head at blazing speed, hurting his brain. He tossed and turned but couldn't shut down. He was excited because tomorrow he'd know where she was and could finally punish her for what she did, and visions of what he'd do plagued him all day. He masturbated six times but his dick wouldn't leave him alone. Finally, he took out his laptop, searched a certain website, and found a hooker. The pictures promised a petite Hispanic woman with B-cup breasts, a heart shaped ass, and long legs. He knew as soon as he saw them that he had to have her. He sternly admonished himself not to kill her - he couldn't afford a slip up right now, and not being on home turf put him at a huge disadvantage. Just fuck her, that's it.

She operated out of a dive motel in the heart of the ghetto, the kind of place that might as well advertise hookers and drugs right along with air conditioning and color TV. She looked exactly like she did in the pics...except for the mommy pouch on her stomach, her saggy tits, and her sallow skin. She looked tired and strung out, nothing like Maya, but he didn't care.

Undressing with a marked lack of enthusiasm, she climbed onto the bed, got on her hands and knees, and stuck her ass in the air. He entered her from behind...and that was all he remembered. When he came to, she lay flat on her back, head lolling limply to one side and nose broken. Her tiny breasts heaved as she drew labored breaths through her ruined lips. Horror rose in the back of his throat and he yanked out of her, a flood of cum dribbling from her battered crease.

He lost control.

Again.

She shuddered beneath him, and for a moment, he didn't know what to do...then he grabbed her around the neck and squeezed until she was still.

Getting dressed, he wiped every surface with a towel from the bathroom just in case he touched something and left a print behind. Before he left, he found her phone in the nightstand drawer and took it so the police wouldn't be able to find his number. There was a high chance someone had seen him or the Crown Vic, and cold dread had been sloshing in the pit of his stomach ever since. He fucked up. He fucked up _bad_.

Back in the room, thoughts of Maya shoved out his fear, and for hours he lay in bed with his arms crossed over his chest and an inexplicable fever wracking his body. His mind raced, his dick ached, and when he finally dozed, he dreamed of her; he couldn't find her, couldn't see her, but he could hear her laughing at him.

That morning, he woke with her laughter still ringing in his ears, and rage simmered in his breast. He lashed out and broke the shower head because he was sick of bathing in a trickle; he lost the remote, and got so worked up looking for it that he threw the TV on the floor; and on his way to Elena's building, someone cut him off traffic, and flashing, he punched the gas, pulled up beside them, and pointed his Glock at their face.

He normally had a firm grip, but not today, and wasting those drunks would be all too easy.

Instead, he finished his meal, left a crumpled twenty on the table, and left. Ranks of blue, purple, and orange tinged the twilight sky and a chilly wind swept through the parking lot, bringing with it the smell of exhaust fumes from the busy intersection ahead. He zipped his jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets, and crossed to the Crown Vic. Behind the wheel, he turned the key in the ignition and looked at the clock on the dash. 6:30.

Earlier, he followed Elena to the hospital again just to confirm that she worked today. She did. His original plan was to wait until nine and drive to her building, but he didn't want to put it off any longer; he was excited, impatient, and wanted this done _now._

Backing up, he swung right and drove to the exit. He waited for a line of cars to pass, then turned right. It might be too early to start, too many people around.

Deciding to wait, he returned to his room, where he sat in the dark and watched the clock on the nightstand, struggling to keep thoughts of Maya from overwhelming him but failing. What was it about her that arrested him? Why couldn't he forget her like he had all the other women he'd ever been with? Before her, he frequented sex parties and underground BDSM clubs where he wold have three or four women in one night, some of them better looking and better at sex than Maya, yet it was _her _he loved. It didn't make sense, but there was something special about her, something inside of her that drew him like a moth to flame. He didn't know what it was, but it was there, had been since the day he met her, and he felt the perverse and persistent urge to break it like the delicate neck of a ten dollar whore.

Innocence?

That wasn't it, at least he thought, but it was close enough. She was lively, pretty, and innocent, and for some unnamable reason, he _hated _it.

He thought he broke her the day he smashed their child's skull through her stomach. He believed, foolishly it turned out, that she would never come back from that, but she did and she fucking _left _him.

Seething, he gritted his teeth. It was nine now.

Getting up from the chair, he grabbed the knife from his bag and tucked it into his belt, then covered it and the gun with his shirt. He left the room, locked the handle, and walked down the hall to the stairway. In the lobby, he nodded absently to the clerk and went out into the frosty night; his breath misted before him and he cringed a little. Born and raised in L.A., he wasn't used to the cold, and his own susceptibility to the elements pissed him off. He _hated _weakness, even in himself...especially in himself.

On the way to Elena's, he stopped at a gas station and bought a pack of gum; he needed something to take the edge off his nerves, and he refused to drink or smoke.

It was almost 9:30 when he parked across the street from the complex. Lights shone in some of the widows, and a group of niggers sat on the stoop, rap blasting from one's phone. Derringer killed the headlights, cut the engine, and got out. He went around to the trunk, opened it, and leaned in, rummaging until he found a black bag, which he unzipped. Inside was a cornucopia of depravity. Knives, rope, duct tape, mace, handcuffs, whips, chains, ball gags, a handheld taser packing 50,000 volts of fun, pliers, and other things. He felt around until his fingers brushed a small case. Lock picking tools. He took it out and shoved it into his jacket. He zipped the bag up, slung it over his shoulder, and slammed the trunk.

Ducking his head to conceal his face as best he could, he crossed the street and went inside, the niggers having enough decency to scoot over and allow him passage - most would have just sat there like monkeys. After the cool night air, the lobby was uncomfortably warm. A corpulent black woman with her bulging nigger ass stuffed into a gray pair of sweat pants and an Ilhan Omar style headscarf wrapped around her nappy roots stood at the mailboxes staring at a letter - hopefully telling her Trump cut off her food stamps.

Ignoring her, Derringer hefted the bag and climbed the stairs, chin up, chest out, affecting the confidence of a man who had lived in this building twenty years. Confidence, he had learned, was key. Confidence could get you anywhere, even places you didn't belong.

The third floor hall was empty and clogged with pent-up cooking odors. The walls shook under the sonic assault of loud, bass heavy rap and somewhere, a woman shrieked laughter. _Hahahaha, Black-ish you so funny_. He walked boldly up to Elena's door, produced the case, and undid the Velcro strap. He selected a metal tension wire roughly eight inches long, inserted it into the bottom of the lock, and applied pressure. He tossed a wary look over his shoulders, then leaned over to block anyone from seeing what he was doing. He slipped a snap gun from the case and jammed it into the top of the lock. Pulling on the wire, he jerked the trigger, and with a low whirring sound much like a power drill, the bit tripped the tumblers. The door popped open, and he nudged it the rest of the way with his foot.

He returned the gun and the wire both to the case, then put it back into his jacket.

With one final look around, he entered and closed the door behind him.

* * *

It was late Monday evening, and Maya DiMartino had never been happier. Sitting at her dining room table with countless papers fanned out before her, she smiled down at the phone in her hands. THINKING OF YOU, Lincoln had texted, and that was quite the coincidence because she was thinking of him too.

Of course, that was a given. She'd been thinking of him nonstop since the day they made love in the back of her car. Nothing else had intruded, not even Norman, her feet hadn't touched the ground in days. In her near thirty years, she'd been in love more than once, but never with the chest clenching intensity she felt now. It was like drinking cold, sweet water after a long, thirsty trek through a harsh desert, or a cool breath of air on a hot day. She loved him with the careless abandon of a young girl who'd never been heartbroken or hurt; it was a pure, heady, and unconditional feeling, one of those dangerous emotions that could lead a woman through the gates of hell, but that was okay...Lincoln wouldn't hurt her.

Except by not being with her.

Like a newly minted drug addict, she craved him with an unquenchable yen that was almost unbearable. She longed for his touch, his kiss, his very presence so hard she was surprised she hadn't ruptured something yet. In a perfect world, she would have him all to herself, but life has a way of intervening. At school, she spent the whole first period looking at him and yearning to hug him...just an affectionate hug...and the rest of the day thinking about him, looking for him in the halls, and dreaming up ways she could get him out of whatever class he was in just so they could spend time together. She rejected every one and resigned herself to waiting. They were playing a dangerous game and had to be cautious...which was already proving to be difficult. If she let her guard down for even a second, she might do something stupid.

Today, he didn't have to pick his sisters up after school, so they had a full hour together; they came back here and snuggled a little, then had sex, then took a shower together. From the way his hands shook, he really enjoyed rubbing soap over her naked body, and she liked it too; even now her core pinched at the memory and she unconsciously crossed her legs. For a while after bathing, they lay in bed and talked, both naked, as free and uninhibited as children. He told her about his family and her jaw dropped. She knew he had a lot of sisters, but ten? "That's almost as many as my grandparents," she marveled.

"How many did _they _have?"

"Sixteen."

Lincoln winced. "Holy shit."

She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. "I have a lot of aunts and uncles," she said, "even more cousins."

"God, I'm afraid to ask how many."

She silently counted, using her fingers and toes, and finally arrived at a number. "42."

"No," Lincoln said disbelievingly.

"It's true," she argued.

He shook his head. "Wow."

"Hispanic families are usually very big," she said.

"Your mom didn't have that many children," he pointed.

She nodded. "My father died when I was five."

"Oh," he said, "him too? I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she assured him, "he wasn't the best of men."

She left it at that and didn't elaborate. Her father wasn't a bad man, but he was what Norman would have called weak. He drank, gambled, and had an innate wanderlust that carried him across three different countries like a tumbleweed. He'd meet a woman, fall genuinely in love with her (or at least what passed for genuinely with him), and then settle down. Six months or a year later, he would start to chafe like a man in a too-small suit. A year or even two in, he'd go out for a pack or cigarettes or to go to work, then never come back again. He was with her mother for five years, off and on; he kept coming back and she kept taking him in. She loved him and, Maya thought, he loved her too, more than the others.

As far as she knew, he fathered two children other than her and Elena, but she suspected there were far more, a host of half brothers and sisters she had never met living lives she had never imagined. She liked to think she would reunite with them some day, and she said as much to Lincoln.

"If you want siblings, take a few of mine," he said. "I had to slap a half eaten sandwich out of Lana's hand this morning. She found it on the ground at the park yesterday and wanted to have it for breakfast."

Maya snickered and took Lincoln's hand in her own. "Aw, but she was hungry."

"She can get botulism on someone else's watch."

Maya opened her mouth to tell him that a discarded sandwich does not carry botulism, but closed it again. "You really care about your sisters, don't you?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said with a nonchalant shrug.

Though he tried to play it off, she could sense an endless well of love and compassion in his heart, something that even at her most callow she had never seen in Norman. He was caring, kind, and gentle...everything that made the perfect man. She thought back to what he said about his calling being to love her, and a warm tingle started in her toes and rushed over her like a wildfire.

It was far too early to say this...but she thought she knew what _her _calling in life was, and it wasn't teaching.

But it did involve children.

Was she crazy?

That wasn't a rhetorical question, she honestly wondered if her attachment to Lincoln was healthy or not. She barely knew him and here she was, lying nude in her bed and dreaming of their wedding and their babies. It all happened so fast; she went from barely registering his presence to latching onto him like an octopus. If he were to call her now and tell her he didn't want to see her anymore, she would curl up into a ball and die.

Less than a week...and she was already the crazy girlfriend.

Or maybe...maybe this was simply how true love felt.

She drew a deep sigh and let it out in a rush. Letting go and allowing herself to have faith in love was almost as hard as watching Lincoln walk out the door, but she didn't want to second guess her feelings. She was happy for the first time she could remember and she wanted to enjoy it.

And that's exactly what she would do.

Metaphorically closing her eyes and throwing out her arms, she took that leap of faith and accepted his feelings for her, and hers for him.

Presently, her thumbs flew over the screen, then she tapped SEND.

I'M ALWAYS THINKING OF YOU followed by a kissy face emoji. She sat the phone aside and went back to grading, her eyes returning to it every couple seconds. When it buzzed, she snatched it up and swiped her thumb across the screen.

When she saw what it was, she laughed merrily.

A selfie of Lincoln puckering his lips at the camera. She replied with: SO SEXY, then an emoji with hearts for eyes.

She sat the phone down and picked up her pen, then instantly dropped it and grabbed the phone when it buzzed again. SO ARE YOU he said.

Such a simple compliment, but it made her feel light and giggly nonetheless. GTG. TEXT LATER. LOVE U.

U TOO.

WIth a sad sigh, she put the phone down, picked up her pen, and got back to work.

Ten minutes later, she was texting him again.

* * *

Elena DiMartino stepped off the Number 10 bus at 11:45 and walked the four blocks home through the frosty night. Streetlamps lit the way, throwing puddles of rust colored light on cracked pavement, but trepidation nagged her anyway, and she moved as quickly as her legs would carry her...which wasn't very quickly at all, since she was kind of fat. Okay, more than kind of, but she was working on it. She started a new diet last month and she'd already dropped five pounds. That wasn't a lot, but it was encouraging nevertheless. This one might actually work.

Of course, she said that about the last one...and the one before that...and the one before that. She hoped and wished, but every regimen she tried went _pfft _after a while. The problem was her. She liked to eat, and somewhere along the way, it became a crutch. When she was stressed, sad, or heartbroken, food was always there to comfort her. A doctor in California said she was addicted to eating, and she waved him off, sure it had to be a glandular thing - her mother was big, and so were most of her aunts and uncles. Two weeks later, her cat, Buster, who she'd had for years, got hit by a car and died. That night, she sat on the couch and ate two pints of ice cream through her tears.

That as a special occasion, but it highlighted her use of food as a coping mechanism, and she swore to lose weight.

Easier said than done.

It's not that she didn't want to, she did, but she was so used to emotional eating that she couldn't break the habit. Unfortunately for her, between work, taking weekend courses at the community college for her RN, and working Sundays at Heritage Hall nursing home, she was always stressed. Add to that the depression over her weight, and it was a recipe for disaster..with extra sprinkles.

She tried really hard not to let it get her down, but for all her jokes and laughter, she was unhappy. At thirty-one, she'd been fat her entire life and no matter how hard she fought against it, she only got fatter. She hated her rolls, her double chin, and...well...her whole body. She hated looking in the mirror, hated shopping because she could never find clothes that fit, hated the way her arms jiggled and her shirts rode up her stomach. She hated being tired and sore and sweaty, she hated that sometimes, she couldn't stop herself from eating, and she hated feeling bloated and disgusting. Getting a man if she wanted one wasn't much of a problem - a lot hit on her despite her weight- but when one came onto her, especially without even knowing her first, she was always suspicious. Uh, what do _you _want, buddy? A place to sleep? An ATM? A green card? They had to have ulterior motives, because she sure wasn't anything worth walking up to and sweet talking.

A loud _pop _sounded in the distance, and she jumped. To her left, a decaying plank fence separated the sidewalk from a vacant lot, and on her right, an abandoned row house loomed over the street like a skeletal face, its doors boarded up and its windows gaping, glassless sockets. She waited for it to come again, and when it didn't, she let out a deep breath. She'd been living in the neighborhood for eight months and in time she'd seen three shootings, had her purse snatched twice, and witnessed more drug deals than she could count. Hookers serviced Johns in the empty lot next to her building (something she learned by seeing it first hand...five times) and gangs openly walked the streets - Bloods, Crips, MS-13. She _hated _it here and couldn't wait to move out. She would have months ago, but she spent most of her savings helping Maya buy her house.

Maya suggested she move in, but Elena wasn't down with living in the boondocks. Detroit was sucky, but there were far more opportunities here, and everything was so close by, which was a huge plus since Elena didn't have a car.

She held no grudge toward her baby sister. In fact, she insisted on helping. Since their mother died, she had taken care of Maya as her own, and even though they were both adults now, the maternal instincts she had developed for her were set in stone. She always thought of her needs before her own.

Which is why she was even in Michigan to begin with. She had a comfy life in L.A. and wouldn't have left it if she had a choice, but she didn't because of that bastard Norman. She _knew _he was trouble - call it discernment or intuition, but she could tell. She didn't know how at first, but over time it came to her: His smile. It was handsome, but it never touched his eyes; when his face glowed, they stayed cold, reptilian. The first time Maya came over with a bruise, she knew in an instant, even though Maya swore up and down she accidentally gave it to herself. She let it go, wanted desperately to be wrong, but they kept happening, and finally Maya confessed, but begged her not to say or do anything because "that'll just make it worse." Soon, the son of a bitch wouldn't even let them talk on the phone, but she sat on her hands and let it happen.

No matter how long she lived or how much she tried to justify herself, she would never forgive herself for that.

Never.

_Pop-Pop-Pop._

Her heart rocketed into her throat, and she quickened her step. The first one could have been a car backfiring, but now she was _sure _they were gunshots.

A black cat streaked across her path like a bad omen, and she cursed her block. Stupid neighborhood. Stupid city. Stupid state. By the time she reached the front door leading into her building, she was sweaty and out of breath. Whew, I'm too fat for this. Wiping the back of her hand across her brow, she went in. Darnell Pratt, a tall, wiry black man with a goatee, was checking his mail and grinned at her. "Hey, girl."

Darnell was closing in of fifty, but not unattractive. His arms were toned and his chest muscles made firm and touchable shapes beneath the thin fabric of his gray wife beater. His legs were well-defined too, and his butt...yum. The only flaw on her person was his footwear. Sandals with socks? C'mon, really?

"Hey," she said.

"Gettin' home from work?"

She blew a tired puff of air. "Yep. They wanted me to work a double but I said _hell _no."

Darnell laughed. "Yeah, that ain't worth it."

"I almost did," she said. She was on the bottom step now. She liked talking to him and admiring his body, but she was exhausted. All she wanted right now was to take a shower, get in comfy clothes, and watch TV. "I decided no, you had enough of my time."

"That's right, that's right," he said, "eight hours is enough. After that I'm ready to come _home_."

"Me too." She didn't want to be rude, but she turned firmly away and started up before he could detain her any longer. "Have a good night."

"You too," he called.

Huffing and puffing, knees aching, she climbed to the third floor. At the top, she leaned against the banister and paused to catch her breath. You'd think that with the elevator always being broken and her having to make a grueling march up the stairs every day, she'd be fit as a fiddle, but nope. Maybe someone else but not _her. _

She realized she was edging close to self-pity, and pulled herself back. She reminded herself she was a work in progress and wallowing wouldn't help the process. Standing up straight, she nodded resolutely to herself (alright, let's do this...even though I'm not exactly sure what _this _is) and ambled to her door. She dug in her purse for her keys and pulled them out, her cellphone coming with and landing on the floor with a thump. She rolled her eyes - ugh, bending. I just did this at work. She stooped down, grabbed it, and put it back. This reminded her, she wanted to call Maya and see if she was up. They usually talked once a day and texted back and forth throughout, but the past couple days...radio silence. It took Maya forever to get back to her and while some people found it hard to discern tone and infection from text, Elena was not one of them: Her sister was _way _preoccupied. Probably her workload: She had to bring homework home with her just like a kid. LOL. That'd be like if she had to bring sick people home with her.

Lame.

She unlocked the door, opened it, and went inside, snapping the light on as she went. She shut the door behind her, locked it, and engaged the security chain, then kicked out of her shoes. The darkened living room stood off to her right and the kitchen, a narrow space with ancient appliances, lay straight ahead. She went into the bedroom on her right, turned the light on, and went into the bathroom, where she peed and washed her hands. In the room, she sat on the foot of her bed and peeled her socks off, then lumbered into the kitchen on bare feet, stomach rumbling.

Be quiet, you. You're getting dinner.

At the freezer, she opened it, rummaged around, and came back with a Lean Cuisine meal. Oooh, Alfredo. She turned it over in her hands, scanned the back, and tore the packaging open. She slipped the tray out, set it on a plate, and shoved it in the microwave. She punched the time in, and the microwave kicked on with a low hum.

She went into the living room and bent over the coffee table to pick up the remote, freezing when a floorboard creaked behind her. She started to turn, and something smashed hard into her head; white light burst in her skull and her knees gave out, spilling her to the floor. Pulsing agony throbbed in the middle of her brain and tears welled in her eyes. A dark shadow loomed over her, and her heart started to race; even disoriented from the blow, she knew she was in danger.

The intruder kicked the coffee table aside and knelt down next to her. She tried to scoot away, but he grabbed her by the front of her shirt and dragged her face to his, ripping a strangled cry from her throat. The light from the kitchen fell across his face, and when she saw who it was, her blood turned to ice water.

Norman.

His cold blue eyes glinted with madness and his lips pulled back over his perfect teeth in a hateful grimace. His chin, normally clean shaven, was covered in several days' worth of stubble and his hair stuck out at weird angles, lending him a demented air.

A scream lodged in Elena's throat, and Norman crashed his fist into her nose, shattering it; stinging pain exploded over her and warm liquid gushed down her face, heavy and coppery on her lips. A pained wheeze escaped her, and Norman punched her again. Dizziness swirled in her head, and she started to sink into unconsciousness. He flashed and threw her back against the floor, her skull cracking on the hard surface. He closed his hand around her throat, and her heart jolted. He squeezed just enough to restrict her air supply.

"Where is she?" he hissed.

His words failed to penetrate the dense fog choking her brain, and sneering, Norman brought his open palm up then down across her face with a meaty _thwack_. A sob knocked from her bloody lips and, shamefully, she started to cry.

Norman balled his hand and slammed it into her temple, and darkness stole across her vision.

Panting, Derringer stared down at her for a moment, his hands aching to crush her fat neck, then he got up and went into the bedroom. His bag sat just inside the closet, where he had hidden. He picked it up and carried it to the kitchen, where he sat it on the counter and unzipped it. He rifled through, took out a knife, handcuffs, pliers, and a roll of duct tape. His hands trembled and his mind ached like an infected tooth. As he crouched in the closet, Maya's voice echoed through the chambers of his head as clear as though she were beside him, and the fury in his chest blazed so hot it burned away any pretense of stability. He was obsessed and losing control, and he could no longer contain himself...no longer cared to.

In the living room, Elena lay on her stomach, back rapidly rising and falling. Derringer got down on one knee, fanned his tools out on the floor, and slammed his fist between her shoulder blades, stunning her. He threw his leg over her, mounted, and wrenched her arms behind her back. She let out a broken moan, and cried out when he put the cuffs on her wrists, closing them as far as they would go. He shook like a junkie in need of a high and thoughts flashed blindingly through his fevered head.

He scrambled off and rolled her onto her back. Blood leaked from her nose and her right eye was swollen nearly shut, the sclera red with burst blood vessels. In her good one, horror dilated her pupil, and he barked a crazy laugh. He reached for the tape, remembered that he needed her to talk, and rejected it - can't talk with tape on your mouth. Instead, he picked up the knife, and her eye widened. She let out a miserable sound that grated him. Grabbing her hair, he yanked her head back and pressed the blade to her quivering throat. She squeezed her eyes closed and blubbered like a little baby, fat, ugly tears trickling down her fat, ugly face. "Please, no," she sobbed. "No, no, no, no."

"Shut up, bitch," he spat, and she fell silent. "Where is she?"

Elena swallowed hard and pressed her lips tightly together as if to keep from blurting out Maya's location. That tiny act of defiance enraged him, and he dug the blade into her skin. Blood welled up around the steel like water from the ground, and Elena cried even harder. The kneading, ear-piercing quality of it stabbed into his brain and made him wince. He tightened his grip on her hair and bit the knife deeper, parting her flesh but not enough to kill. "Stop fucking crying," he hissed, spittle flying from his lips. "Where is she?"

The fat woman didn't respond, and Derringer let go of her hair, her head clunking to the floor. Fine, if she wanted to play, he'd play.

He picked up the pliers, and Elena tried to wiggle away again. He got on top of her, knees caging her hips, and held it up so she got a good, long look. "You're going to tell me where Maya is," he promised, "the only choice is whether we do this the easy way...or the hard way." A demonic grin slithered across his lips. He _liked _the hard way.

Closing her eyes once more like a scared little girl convinced the bogeyman is in her closet, Elena started to mutter a fervent prayer.

"Hard way it is!"

Grabbing her by the face, he squeezed, and her lips smooshed. She fixed him with a pleading gaze, and shuddered fearfully when he brought the pliers to her mouth. "You're on thin ice," he said, "hanging on by _the skin of your teeth_." He laughed uproariously at his stupid pun, then clamped the ridged metal grip onto her front tooth. She thrashed and tried to buck him off, whimpering like a wounded animal, and he smiled widely. He was so hard his erection jammed into her stomach and the sound of her tooth cracking when his flicked his wrist shot ripples of pleasure through his stomach.

Elena whipped her head from side to side, droplets of blood sprinkling the couch and the front Derringer's shirt. He snarled, grabbed her about the chin, and held her still. "Tell me where she is or I'm going to keep hurting you."

Through her watery eyes, Derringer could see her mind working as she weighed his demand. She was protective of Maya and wouldn't give her up easily...every woman has her breaking point, though, you just have to find it.

"Are you going to talk?" he asked with patronizing enunciation.

She rolled her eyes up to one side and blinked rapidly. The poignant, soul-crushing torment therein - that of a mother backed into a corner and considering the sacrifice of her child to save her own life - was delicious, and Derringer's dick pounded against the inside of his jeans. "I'm waiting," he said with a satisfied hilt.

Elena closed her lips and sucked her lips into her mouth to keep from breaking down. She did not turn, did not speak, and Derringer took that to mean she wasn't going to talk.

Okay then.

He picked up the duct tape, ripped off a strip, and slapped it on her lips. He got to his feet, went into the kitchen, and turned on the stove. The microwave dinged, and for the first time he realized that the smell of Alfredo lingered in the air. His stomach rumbled.

Grabbing a fork, he took the tray out, peeled off the cellophane, and carried it into the living room. Elena lay where he'd left her, tears leaking from her closed eyelids. He twirled the tines of the fork in the pasta and took a bite. "You're really fucking stupid," he said around a mouthful, "you know that?"

She didn't reply.

Bending, he picked up the pliers and the knife and went back into the kitchen. The left front burner glowed orange with heat, and he the business end of both instruments on, making sure the handles were clear. "You're going to tell me," he called over his shoulder, "might as well save yourself the trouble."

He hurriedly finished the Alfredo and tossed the tray and fork into the sink. He waited a minute, then carefully removed the knife and pliers. In the living room, he knelt next to Elena, hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pants, and pulled them down her fat, cottage cheese thighs. She snapped her legs instinctively closed, and balling his fist, he brought it down on her stomach. She jerked and went limp in surrender.

Next, he yanked her underwear savagely down, revealing her slit. Picking up the knife, he cut the panties and pants away, then pried her thighs open. The tape muffled her sobs, but he wished it didn't - he wanted to hear them at full volume.

Setting the knife aside, he went for the pliers. He tapped the steel with his pointer finger, and burning pain shot into his arm.

Good.

"Unless you tell me where Maya is, I'm going to shove this in you." He held it up and turned it this way and that. Elena's eyes widened. "Fresh off the stove, too. Feel." He pressed it to her stomach, and she shrieked beneath the tape, her back arching. Derringer grinned giddily, and with a flourish, he clamped the grip to one pussy lip. She let out a bloodcurdling scream, loud even through the tape, and her entire body convulsed as though she were having a seizure. Derringer giggled and pulled the pliers back, stretching her lip lip a rubber band. Flesh sizzled, tore, blood spurted, and Elena shivered and wept unashamedly.

Letting the pliers fall to the floor, Derringer got on top of her once more, the knife in his hand. Elena's eyes bulged from their sockets and her features contorted in suffering. He ripped the tape off and tossed it away, then held the knife to her throat. "Are you going to talk now?"

Still sobbing, completely defeated, Elena nodded.

"Where is she?" he asked.

Elena took a deep breath. Her voice was quiet, subdued, and hitched with grief. "R-Royal Woods."

That name meant nothing to him. "What's her address?" he asked. His heart blasted into his ribs and his stomach coiled in suspense. He was so close...so close to having Maya back...

Elena broke down crying again, perhaps at the realization she had just signed her baby sister's death warrant, and Derringer slapped her. "What's her fucking address?"

"620 J-Jointer Avenue," she whispered.

Pushing up, Derringer sat on the couch, whipped his phone out, and punched in the address. His hands shook, his breath was ragged. On the floor, Elena rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in the carpet, and cried.

Twenty-five mils away...she was twenty-five miles away.

"Got'cha, bitch," he said around a leering smile. He shoved the phone into his pocket and started to get up, everything else forgotten, and tripped.

Elena.

Whoops. Didn't see you there, fatso.

He straddled her back and picked up the knife, then changed his mind and unbuckled his pants. Elena tried to get her knees under her, and Derringer grabbed her hair, slamming her face into the floor with a wet, sickening crack. WIth his free hand, he pulled his dick out and guided it to her opening, then had a better idea and changed course, stopping at her puckered butt hole. He was panting now, like a wild animal, lead heavy in his stomach. He pulled back on her hair and shoved himself into her. She screeched, and he thrusted hard, her body clenching around him as if to repel his assault. He bowed his head and rutted into her butt with all his force, vaguely aware of sensitive tissue ripping and blood greasing the way.

Elena squeezed her eyes closed and bore down on her teeth, her face rippling and twisting in agony. She could do nothing but lay there and take it...deserved it for giving Maya up.

Fresh tears filled her eyes and she gave into them.

Derringer slammed into her, back and forth, grunting and hissing like a predator tearing apart its prey. Just before he came, he snatched the knife from the floor, lifted it high above his head, and plunged it into Elena's back. Her ass walls spasmed, and her high, wavering cry pushed him to ograsm. He swelled, popped, and sprayed his cum deep into her ass. Grunting, he ripped the knife out and stabbed her again, then again, raining down a flurry of blows. Her cries grew weaker, then trailed off into a series of breathy sobs.

When he was spent, he threw the knife away, pushed to his feet, and pulled his pants up. Blood saturated the back of Elena's white scrub top and her breathing was shallow, rasping. Derringer held his hand to his temple and shook his head. He felt strange...not right...and the room spun like a tilt-a-whirl. Maya's laughter revnerated in his skull, and his eyes narrowed. He could be there tonight. He could _end _this.

He took a step and stumbled, nearly fell but caught himself. Exhaustion finally catching up with him; he hadn't slept well in weeks and at long last, he had what he wanted...what he needed.

Tomorrow, he vowed.

He staggered out the door and down the hall, totally oblivious to the mountain of evidence he'd left in Elena's apartment. He didn't care, though.

The only thing he cared about was Maya.

In the apartment, Elena lay face down on the floor. She was cold and tired, her body mercifully numb to its many wounds. Her head was heavy, and when she tried to raise it, hot nausea crashed over her. Her vision was starting to go gray and she closed her eyes against the final tears she would ever cry.

_I'm sorry, _she thought and hitched, _I'm sorry. _

Nearly fifteen years ago, she took a vow to protect and watch over her little sister, and for nearly two decades she had...but when Maya needed her most, she faltered.

She should have let him hurt her more...she should have kept her mouth closed.

There were many things in this life that she regretted - her weight, not marrying and having children - but failing her baby sister dwarfed them all.

She didn't have to live with it for very long, though.

And for that, at least, she died grateful.


	8. Death Comes to Town

Tuesday morning dawned rainy and cold with a sharp westerly wind that rattled the window screen and shook the few remaining leaves out of the trees dotting Jointer Avenue. Thin gray light leaked into the room and tinged the walls a ghostly shade of bleak and fingers of icy water sluiced down the pane like teardrops. The soft glow of the bedside lamp kept the bulk of the shadows back, and tinny music from the clock radio provided a feeble flicker of sound.

Sitting up in bed, dressed in a red and green flannel nightgown that Elena said made her look like Freddy Krueger, Maya DiMartino balanced a wide, hardback book on her lap and graded papers left over from the night before. The teddy bear Lincoln gave her leaned heavily into her side like a weary companion, and every time she accidentally knocked it over with her elbow, she sat it fussily back up. Every so often, she shot it a quick glance and smiled. It was a small gift - boys and men had given her bigger and more expensive - but it meant the world to her, and every night, she fell asleep cuddling it.

The current song ended and the weather came on. Rain was forecast for the rest of the day and into the evening, with a break overnight before picking back up tomorrow morning. The weatherman warned of localized flooding, and Maya vaguely wondered if the Royal River would spill its banks. In the pharmacy downtown - the one with an old fashioned soda counter - a framed newspaper from 1928 hung on the wall. **TOWN DELUGED! **the headline blared. She curiously read it the first time she and Elena had lunch there, before buying the house, and after moving here, people occasionally mentioned "The Flood of '28" in obeisant tones usually reserved only for the most monumental of events.

In October 1928, the story went, it rained for nearly a week. The river crested and flowed into town, damaging low lying properties and covering River Road. It might have ended there and been forgotten, but seven miles upstream, the Little Gorge Dam began to fail. At midnight on the 25th, it gave way and thousands of gallons of water spilled downriver, destroying houses and bridges, uprooting trees, and sweeping men and animals to their deaths. By the time it hit Royal Woods, the wave was nearly twenty feet high and choked with debris. The west side of town, where Lincoln lived today, was completely obliterated, and downtown was heavily damaged. 398 people were killed, 174 of them in Royal Woods, and wreckage still popped up in the river from time to time.

That was unlikely to happen again, as the dam had been rebuilt stronger than before, but it came to mind anyway, and the thought of losing Lincoln to a swift moving wall of water wrenched her heart.

She was being silly and she knew it, but when you have something as beautiful as what she did, you worry about losing it. At least she did. She felt almost as strongly for Norman once, and she lost him, didn't she? He may not have died, but it was almost like he did. The Norman she fell in love with, that is. The happy, smiling, charismatic man she married slowly passed away, and something else took his place. The monster she fled eight months ago was not the same man she vowed to honor and obey. In her heart of hearts, she feared Lincoln dying just like Norman had, literally or metaphorically. She tried to ignore the fact that he was young and that young men eventually change into not-so-young men, but it sat heavy in the back of her mind. Life alters you, and you never know what kind of person someone will be until they are forged in the fires of time and experience. Lincoln was sweet and innocent now, but there was no telling what he would be like in ten years.

That might just be her paranoia talking. After being unhappy for so long, she finally had something that made her happy and on some level, she was waiting for the hammer to drop, just as it dropped before.

Kind of morbid, maybe, but that's just how she was now. Life alters you...and being married to Norman Derringer altered her in many unsettling ways. She was more guarded now, and didn't approach life with the same unreserved vigor she had as a younger woman. Even now, ecstatic and in love, she couldn't let herself entirely relax, and probably wouldn't be for a long time to come. If she relaxed, she might not be ready to face whatever may come, and she was loath to be a sitting duck again.

She finished with the current paper and set it on the pile next to her. Three more to go. She looked at the clock (6:02), then back to the sheet. She meant to finish these last night, but she got sidetracked texting Lincoln, and suddenly, three hours had passed and it was almost midnight. Luckily, she liked being up early in the morning. There was a certain indefinable tranquility about the hours around dawn that had always appealed to her, The day was new, fresh, and clean, and the solitude of sunrise made her feel as though the universe were letting her in on a secret.

When she was finished with the last three tests, she added them to the stack, got up, and went into the bathroom. After showering, brushing her hair, and applying make-up, she dressed in a gray shirt and white blouse. She collected her papers, turned the radio and lamp off, and went into the kitchen, where she made herself a cup of instant coffee and hurriedly drank it. She was excited about seeing Lincoln at school; it had been just a little over twelve hours since they parted ways, but it felt like much longer. Hopefully he didn't have to pick his sisters up, that way they could spend time together this afternoon. They could go out for dinner or ice cream, maybe.

She scrunched her lips contemplatively.

On second thought, that might not be such a good idea. If they were seen together - laughing and gazing flirtatiously at one another - people might start to talk. She didn't like having to hide her relationship with Lincoln, as though it were something dirty and shameful, but she had to, or else she might lose her job, or go to jail, or both.

So far, her inability to be free and open with hers and Lincoln's relationship hadn't bothered her, but knowing that they were confined to the shadows _was _a little depressing. She wanted to hold his hand in public and show him off like any woman in love would, not to sneak around like a side piece.

That ultimately didn't matter. She had him and he made her happy. Sure, she wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but like the old song says, you can't always get what you want.

Sigh.

She finished her coffee, sat the mug in the sink, and slid the papers into a folder. She tucked it under her arm, grabbed her purse from the table by the door, and went outside.

Fridget droplets of water pelted her head and shoulders on the dash to the car, and the wind, though light, cut through her like the steely blade of a knife. Water clogged with twigs and leaves rushed along the gutters and she thought again of the '28 Flood. She had taught many subjects in her career as a substitute teacher, but her favorite was history. It had always been that way, even when she herself was a student. She enjoyed everything from math to English, but she kept coming back to history. There was something about the past, something quaint and romantic, that stirred her. There were times she would be watching a movie set in Colonial America or 18th century France, and feel nostalgic, even though both of those places were so far removed from her own time that they might as well have never even happened. Elena joked that she was the reincarnation of Martha Washington, and though Maya didn't believe in reincarnation, she wondered sometimes.

Though she did not attend Mass regularly, she shared her mother's Catholicism, and there's nothing in the Bible about God recycling souls. There were verifiable cases of people having intimate knowledge of lives lived - and lost - decades or even centuries before they were born, but Maya doubted that meant they themselves had lived those lives. She didn't know _what _it meant, and she honestly never made an attempt to find out. Spiritually, she was a peasant whose village was surrounded by deep, dark forest. She didn't know exactly what was out there, and she was too afraid to look. The concept of hell and purgatory both terrified her, and she found it hard to reconcile God's endless love with his abandonment of souls to eternal damnation.

Was God a man like Norman?

On the face of it, that thought was absurd and even sacrilegious, but if you think about it, they really weren't so different. Both loved you until you disobeyed them...then they smited you. God was a strict authoritarian who drew a hard line that you were to slavishly follow and never, ever cross.

Just like Norman.

Unlike Norman, God was consistent and typically only struck you down if you did something wrong. Her husband did it on a whim. They would kiss each other goodbye and be fine in the morning, then at dinner he was mad and calling her names for no reason at all. Some days he came home happy and smiling only to slowly sink into anger, and others the atmosphere would darken as soon as he walked through the door, and she would know that it was going to be a bad night. She never knew what mood he was going to be in and dreaded hearing his car in the driveway. More and more as their marriage progressed, she wished he would get shot or wreck his car and die, but he made it home safe every night…

She was driving past the shops and skeletal trees defining Main Street now, the wipers scraping over the windshield with a rubbery _thump-thump-thump_. She slowed and turned left onto Schoolhouse Road. A mixed group of kids made their way along the sidewalk, four girls and a boy; as Maya drew closer, she realized it was Lincoln and his sisters, and her heart skipped. Lincoln held his backpack over his head to block out the rain, Lola - in hot pink galoshes - twirled a pink umbrella jauntily, Lisa wore a green poncho that made her look like an overgrown pea pod, Lucy ducked under a black umbrella, and Lana stormed through the shower with her head down and shoulders squared like a linebacker charging the opposing team.

Spinning the wheel, Maya pulled to the curb and slowed to a crawl, the headlights washing over them. Lincoln glanced over his shoulder and squinted his eyes suspiciously, then glimpsed her through the rain streaked glass and smirked. She drew alongside them and they all stopped. Lowering the passenger window, she leaned over the seat. "Hi, Lincoln," she said as evenly as she could, as if greeting a familiar face and not the love of her life.

He came up to the window and poked his head in. "Hey," he said.

"You guys want a ride?"

Lincoln opened his mouth, but Lola was already climbing in, followed by Lisa. "I can't stand precipitation," Lisa grumbled. "I understand its necessity, but not whilst I'm walking."

Maya chuckled at the little girl. Lincoln told her all about Lisa. She was very gifted but, he suspected, suffered from feelings of isolation, being so much more advanced than her peers. She coped by going out of her way to indulge her intellect - using needlessly big words, for one - as a means of feeling superior. Maya felt bad for her. She knew what it was like to be isolated from even the people you love - in her case, it wasn't because of her IQ, it was because of her husband - and it was a miserable, lonely feeling.

Lucy came next, then Lana. "I could have made it," Lana said sullenly.

"I brought the other umbrella," Lola sniffed, "you could have used it."

"I'm too tough for an umbrella. They look dumb and weak."

Lana was, per Lincoln, a textbook tomboy who hated all things 'girly' while Lola was the dictionary definition of girly. They were, Maya surmised, like night and day, their personalities clashing just a little too much to be entirely organic. There were eleven children in the Loud family and only two parents. Attention was a severely rationed commodity (like food in North Korea). Each kid made a concerted, though maybe unconscious, effort to stand out from the rest, perhaps in hopes of getting more attention or possibly to assert their individuality. Lincoln told her that all of his sisters had a centralized "thing" (Luan with comedy, Luna with music, etc) and that he didn't. That, Maya thought, was because he, unlike his sisters, was more genuine. His personality was not contrived, a facade carefully crafted in a bid for attention. He was just him, and that was exactly why she loved him.

Opening the door, Lincoln climbed into the passenger seat and sat his bag between his legs. She gazed at him, chest welling, then forced herself to look away. "You're lucky I came along," she said in general, "you look like you were about to drown."

"I wasn't," Lana said, "Lola was."

"Uh, no," Lola retorted nastily, "_I'm _not the one who thinks she's too good for an umbrella."

Lisa flipped down the hood of her poncho. "Drowning under such conditions is highly unlikely but not impossible. If one were to lose consciousness facing the sky, oxygen deprivation _would _present a real concern, but no sooner."

"She was making a joke," Lucy deadpanned, "stop taking things so literally."

Lisa turned to her. "I realize she was making an attempt at humor, but my autism demanded that I point out the fallacy in said."

"Oh, you don't have autism, shut up," Lola said.

"That's not what the anons on 4chan say," Lisa said.

Lincoln let out a shivery sigh and bowed his head in embarrassment. Maya smiled and reached out to stroke his cheek, but pulled away at the last second. "You put up with this every day?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. And twice on Sundays."

The elementary school leered out of the rain to the left, and Maya pulled onto the side street bordering it. Kids streamed in through a side door, passing Vice Principal Manson, who favored them with the wide, crazed eyes of a cult leader. Maya had taught here on several occasions, and hated it because he reminded her so much of Norman.

Lucy opened the door and she and her sisters piled out. "Thanks for the ride," Lucy said.

"Thank you for providing us transportation," Lisa said, "I greatly appreciate it."

"You're very welcome, Lisa."

Lana, the last one out, slammed the door behind her, and they hurried into the building. When they were gone, Maya pulled away from the curb and navigated to the end of the street. Tiny one story houses screened behind spreading oak trees fronted a narrow band of sidewalk, and rain hissed on the blacktop with a soothing sound. Maya reached out, and without even looking, Lincoln took her hand and threaded their fingers together. A warm sensation came over her, and she let out a contented sigh. "Did you finish your homework?" she asked playfully. The last thing he said to her last night was _oh shit its midnight and my homework isn't done. _

"Yeah," he said, "I was up until one doing it."

Maya frowned. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," he said, "I like talking to you more anyway."

She smiled.

"Though, to be honest, if I didn't have history homework, I would have been done twenty minutes sooner."

She rolled her eyes. "Just because we're together doesn't mean you get special treatment. You have to do the same work as everyone else."

"Ugh."

That made her laugh. "But _maybe _I can make an exception here and there."

He grinned.

Turning right, Maya followed Ridgewood Drive to the middle school. At the last intersection, as she waited for a bus to turn on from a side street in front of her, she leaned over, and she and Lincoln kissed, their tongues spiraling in slow, lazy greeting. She pulled away and squeezed his hand. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

"Do you have to pick up your sisters today?" she asked.

Lincoln shook his head. "Nope, Dad's getting them. At least that's the plan. It might change."

"We should do something after school."

"We could," he said. "I was planning on telling my parents I'm going to see Clyde and coming to your place instead."

She put the car in drive and laughed. "You're bad."

"White lie," he shrugged, "won't hurt anyone."

She pulled into the employee parking lot, then into a space set well away from the door. She looked around, then risked another kiss. "So you in class," she said.

"Not if I see you first," he grinned.

Inside, she went to the break room and poured herself a cup of coffee. Mrs. Strump, the music teacher, sat at one of the circular tables and scrolled through her iPad while sipping a can of V8, and Dale Henderson, the janitor, knelt in front of the sink, a battered red tool box standing by like a capable manservant. Dale, sixty and thin with a white handlebar mustache that made him look like Wyatt Erp, was buried up to his waist in the cabinet, muttering soft curses and clanging pipes. The sink had not worked right in the entire time she'd taught here and she doubted Dale was able to fix it. Paying outside help wasn't in the budget, however, so they had no choice. It'd function normally for a week, then stop up again and not drain.

Par for the course when Republicans slash school funding.

Not to get political, but the right seemed to have this deep-seeded hatred for education and poor. Many republicans claimed to be Christian, but showed an almost pathological hostility toward the disadvantaged. They quoted from the Bible all day long, then seethed because a single mother who couldn't make ends meet was "sucking up" their tax dollars. She didn't particularly like the left either, but the right really got under her skin sometimes.

She finished her coffee, put the mug in the sink, and went to class, already looking forward to seeing Lincoln.

* * *

Royal Woods was America. Little pink houses, picket fences, American flags...it was the kind of place where you could raise a family, leave your doors unlocked, and grill out on the 4th of July. The brick and glass storefronts on Main Street - barber shop, bank, cafe - had a postcard quality that evoked Rockwell, and the covered, New England style bridge leading into town looked decidedly out of place in the upper Midwest.

The river that gave the village its name (or maybe vice versa) was swollen with rain water when Norman Derringer crossed it; brown, murky, and slow moving, it had spilled its banks and spread out into the forest surrounding it, two feet high in places. Norman didnt register this, nor did he register the clapboard sign welcoming motorists to ROYAL WOODS, HOME OF THE RAPTORS. A man locked in single-minded frenzy, like a killer shark stalking a crowded summer beach, he was blind to everything but the road ahead.

The road that would lead him to Maya.

His eyes were sore and grainy with sleeplessness and a hot stitch flared in his left temple, but he was unaware of those things too.

Last night, he lay awake in bed, Maya's voice speaking from the center of his skull and driving him crazy. _I never loved you, Norman...I only used you, our marriage means nothing to me hahahahaha. _He crashed his fist into the side of his head in a vain effort to silence her, but she only laughed harder, sending jagged bolts of agony into his brain. "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

_You're going insane, Norman, I'm driving you insane and it's WOOOOOORRRRRKKKKIIIINNNGGG! _

"No it's _not!" _

But was it? He couldn't remember much of that afternoon, and when he got back to the room, his shirt was covered in blood. Dread knotted his stomach and he spent the majority of the evening peeking out the window for the police, sure that he got sloppy and did something. His mind ached and every thought of Maya cut deeper into his gray matter than the last. His hands jittered on the wheel and his breathing came in quick, rattling gasps. Maya had taken over his life and yes, she _was _driving him crazy.

Or trying to.

But that's why he was here, wasn't it? Like Van Helsing staking Dracula, he would put an end to the bitch once and for all and break her spell on him at last.

"TURN LEFT ON RIVER ROAD," the GPS stuck to the dash said.

It sounded like Maya.

Slowing, Derringer turned onto a two-lane ribbon of blacktop matching the course of the Royal River. On the right, houses with wide front lawns faced the street, and on the left, the terrain sloped down to the river. Brownish water flowed and eddied between gnarled tree trunks and rippled under the strengthening rain. If it got much higher, it'd wash across the highway, and the houses would be in trouble.

Perfect weather for revenge.

"TURN RIGHT ON ASHMEAD COURT," Maya said.

When he set out from Detroit, the conductor's voice was toneless and mechanical, like a robot, but the closer he got, the more it changed. Every time it spoke, he stole a glance at the passenger seat, certain she would be there, dressed in a skirt and blouse like the ones she wore to work. A sadistic smile would play across her ruby lips, and in her eyes, he would see the source of her mocking laughter. Once, as he navigated the rain slicked interstate, something moved in his periphery, and he whipped his head around.

She wasn't there.

This was part of her game. He knew that now. She and her bitch sister wanted to drive him crazy. It worked for a little while, but he was onto them now, and he was going to put a stop to it. "I _was _going to let you come back with me," he croaked as he turned onto Ashmead Court. A narrow lane flanked by middle class brick and stone houses with slate roofs, it glistened in the gray half-light, and the Crown Vic's tires kicked up sheets of water. He tightened his grip on the wheel and kept his eyes firmly ahead. He didn't know which prospect scared him more: Turning to see that she was there...or turning to see that she wasn't. "I was going to take you back, Maya. I was willing…" his voice broke with passion and he swallowed. He couldn't show her how much her leaving had gotten to him, _refused _to give her the satisfaction.

"I was willing to forget what you did," he said more evenly. "Then you do _this?"_

He barked a harsh laugh.

"TURN LEFT ONTO JOINTER AVENUE."

A four way intersection lay ahead, guarded by a stop sign. Farther ahead, traffic lights shone green in the mist. Derringer slowed, then turned left.

There was nothing to set Jointer Avenue apart from all the other roads he'd traversed in Royal Woods, but he could feel the difference immediately. The air cracked with electricity like the atmosphere before a storm, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

"YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION."

He hit the brake so quickly the car jolted. He looked left and right, searching the house numbers, and froze when he spotted a mailbox with 620 painted across the side in white. The house, a cape cod with gray siding, occupied a corner lot on the right, its front porch nestled in a grove of bushes. Derringer regarded it with the wary gaze of a man encountering a rare and dangerous animal. Maya's presence rolled off the place in cloying waves, and for a moment he simply sat there, hardly able to comprehend that he was actually here. Almost nine months had passed since he woke one morning to find his bed empty and his wife gone...nine long, grueling months of loathing and torment.

Now finally, it was going to end. Tonight, he would get his hands on her at long last and make her pay.

His dick rapidly inflated, and his heart beat a bone shaking tempo against his ribs.

A car horn blared behind him, and he looked up at the rearview mirror, where a silver minivan idled, raindrops falling in the glow of its headlights.

Spinning the wheel, Derringer pulled to the curb, and the van passed. Was she home? He craned his neck to get a better look at the house. All of the windows were dark and the driveway was empty. He could always go up to the door and knock. If she answered, he'd force his way in. There was a chance someone might see and call the police, though, and he couldn't risk that: He wanted to take his time with the little bitch.

He doubted she was in. The house looked and felt empty. If she was teaching, she was likely in class for the day.

Cutting the engine, he threw open the door and started to get out, mind already faraway, but stopped. He couldn't park here. She might see the Crown Vic when she came home and get spooked.

Closing the door, he started the engine again and drove three blocks farther on, parking behind a black Hyundai. He cut the engine and got out. Cold rain peppered his head and shoulders and soaked his jacket. Ignoring it, he went to the trunk, opened the lid, and leaned in. He unzipped his bag, took out the case containing the lock picking tools, and shoved it into his coat pocket. He slung the back over his shoulder, slammed the lid, and walked back to Maya's house, head ducked against the rain. At the walkway leading to the porch, he looked around, saw no one, and went around the side. The backyard was enclosed on three sides by a tall wooden fence, blocking the view.

Perfect.

He climbed the steps to the back door, yanked out the case, and unzipped it. He took out the tension wire, inserted it into the lock, and applied pressure. Next, he jammed the snap gun in and pulled the trigger. It whirred, and the door popped open. He slipped in and closed it behind him.

The kitchen was a pit of gloom lit by the faint, ashen light creeping in through the window over the sink. The scent of Pine-Sol lingered in the air, and the complete absence of sound told him no one was home.

Walking softly anyway, he crossed the floor, old linoleum popping under his feet. He poked his head gingerly around the corner. The dining room stood empty, shadows festering beneath the table and along the baseboards. He stepped over the threshold and halted when his eyes landed on the portrait upon the wall. Jesus Christ, his heart wrapped in thrones and aflame, stared disappointedly down at him.

Derringer hated religion. It was the crutch of the weak and the truth of the stupid. After they were married, he forbid Maya to believe in God anymore. She broke that rule once by hiding a rosary in her jewelry box. She said it was her mother's and it was special to her. He slapped her, yanked it from her hands, and ripped it to pieces.

The compulsion to take the portrait down and smash it to bits seized him, but he held it in check. Later, after he was done with Maya, maybe, but no sooner. If he made a mess, she might notice it when she got home and bolt like the frightened little mouse she was. He'd worked too hard and come too far to jeopardize his plans.

Turning away from the hateful icon, he searched the rest of the house, starting in the living room. Photos of Elena, Maya as a teenager, and Maya's mother sat on the mantle, and he stared at them for a long time, head cocked quizzically to the side. They were all smiling, and for some reason, he felt like they were smiling at _him. _"Hahahaha, we're driving you crazy, Norman."

Yeah, laugh it up. Two of you are dead and one's about to die. We'll see who's crazy then.

He moved onto the bedroom next. The blanket and sheets hadn't been made, and Derringer grated. Didn't she know he hated this? Had she already forgotten?

Flashing, he swept the lamp and alarm clock off the nightstand. The former shattered on the carpet and the latter ripped out of the wall, going dark.

She was such a fucking slob, and he hated slobs.

Taking a deep breath, he wandered over to the dresser and pulled the top drawer open. His heart skipped at the stacks and stacks of underwear. Blue, red, green, black, white, a rainbow of silky fabric that had recently touched Maya's most precious parts. He picked up a purple pair and pressed them to his nose, drawing her scent in and sighing.

An idea struck him, and unshouldering the bag, he tossed it onto the bed. He kicked out of his shoes, pulled down his pants and boxers, and stepped out of them. His dick jutted proudly before him like the masthead of a majestic galleon.

He pulled Maya's underwear on and tucked his member in. They were soft and smooth against his skin, though painfully tight. He didn't mind that - in order to inflict pain, one must first enjoy receiving it. He put his pants and shoes back on, grabbed the bag, and wandered aimlessly through the house touching everything he came across. In the bathroom, he licked Maya's toothbrush and sniffed her deodorant; in the laundry room, he took a whiff of one of her socks; and in the kitchen again, he raided the pantry, frowning severely at the chips, cookies, and snack cakes crowding the shelves. He didn't believe in polluting his body with junk, and disallowed Maya having these things when they were together. If _this _is how she ate, she was probably as fat as Elena now.

Everywhere he looked, it was like she was defying him. Every choice she made, from leaving the bed unmade to cramming her piehole with crap, was a big, giant FUCK YOU to Norman Derringer.

A crazed smile touched his lips.

We'll see who's fucked when the day is over.

We'll see _plenty_.

Closing the door, he went off to find a place to hide.

* * *

The last bell rang at 2:45, just as Lincoln put the finishing touches on that day's homework in study hall. He slipped it into his chemistry book, tucked it under his arm, got up, and joined the crush of humanity flowing out of the room. In the packed hall, he fought his way to his locker, put in the combination, and shoved the book in. Lucky for him, he didn't have much homework: A math quiz, reading, and a note from Maya. LET'S MAKE HISTORY AND GO ON OUR FIRST DATE it said.

Now _that _was an assignment he could get behind.

He slammed the door and shouldered through the crowd again. Maya texted him a half hour ago telling him to meet her at the end of the street. Someone might see them, but it wouldn't look all that strange for a teacher to pick up a student walking in the rain. Nothing inappropriate about giving a kid a lift, right?

Having to go to such great lengths to hide their relationship was already starting to annoy Lincoln. Not at her, she was just taking reasonable precautions, but at society...or the law...or an abstract Something. The problem here, as he saw it, was age of consent laws, the magic number at which the state deems you capable of making your own decisions. Age of consent typically refers to sexual behavior, but there are multiple similar thresholds, for smoking, voting, and drinking, for instance. Eighteen is when you are considered an adult. You can vote, smoke cigarettes, and be drafted into the army. You can't drink, so there are still limitations, which is kind of unfair. So you mean I can consent to puffing a cigar and help choose the next leader of the free world, but I can't have a beer? That's dumb.

Eighteen is really an arbitrary number when you think about it. What _really _separates a last day sixteen year old and a first day eighteen year old? Not a lot. There were kids his age who were mature and could make just about any choice they came up against (within reason), and there were nineteen and twenty year olds who were complete dumbasses. Eighteen was kind of a strange age to designate as ADULTHOOD. If you asked Lincoln, twenty would make more sense. But if you asked him, there wouldn't be a one size fits all denom.

Then again, the line has to be drawn _somewhere_, and since eighteen is when you graduate high school, it was as good a place as any. To Lincoln's mind, tt all boiled down to emotional maturity, but the laws of a society cannot be tailor made to fit each person specifically. A court of law should take that into account, but those exist to determine whether or not a law has been broken and to mete out an appropriate punishment, not to coddle offenders. If he and Maya were caught, Maya would face charges no matter how much he protested. Being with her was his choice, but until you've reached that super duper magical threshold, your opinion doesn't matter. Can't vote? Can't pay taxes? Fuck you, kid, sit down and shut up.

He heard something recently in the news about Democrats wanting to lower the voting age to sixteen. This from the same people who want to jack the smoking age up and who, honestly, haven't made an honest attempt to lower the drinking age. So, again, you can make an informed decision regarding a political candidate at sixteen, but nothing else? You can't decide you want to boink your teacher but you can vote AOC in 2024?

Got'cha.

On the other hand, kids _are _immature little bastards, just looking around the halls of any school in the country confirmed that. You were likely to see kids slapping each other, chasing each other, jumping up and down, screaming, God, this place is worse than a daycare center. Imagine letting them smoke, vote, drink, and fuck.

Gives you a headache, huh?

Lincoln, like many children, existed in a sort of purgatory, emotionally advanced, legally stunted. From this vantage point, you see early on that laws aren't always fair, but - and this is if you're not being a petulant ass - you'll also see why they are necessary.

He was outside now, head lowered and freezing rain battering the back of his neck. A line of school buses sat at the curb like a majestic fleet preparing to set sail, their blinking red lights shimmering in the rain like blood, and a flood of kids pushed and shoved to get on. Thin white mist obscured the fronts of the houses on the opposite side of the street and standing water covered the asphalt in places, the gutters clogged with leaves, twigs, and trash swept downstream. Lincoln thrust his thumbs through the straps of his backpack and started down the sidewalk, the barren branches overhanging the way doing little to slow the deluge. At the end of the block, Maya's car sat at the curb, engine idling. He hurried his step, opened the door, and climbed in, dropping his backpack between his legs. She leaned over and they kissed. "Hi," she said.

"Hey," he replied, "sorry I'm wet. You know...rain."

She chuckled. "You're cute when your hair is soggy."

He looked up at the rearview mirror. His cowlick was plastered limply to his skull, and his bangs dripped water down his forehead. He swiped them away with his hand and grimaced. "I need to cut it off," he said of the 'lick.

"No, don't do that," Maya implored. She put the car in drive and pulled behind a bus, "it's cute. It makes you look like a bunny rabbit."

Lincoln nodded. "Exactly. I don't wanna look like a rabbit, I wanna look like a person."

"Eh, people are overrated," she teased. She held her hand out, and Lincoln took it, the kiss of her warm skin making his heart beat quicker.

"That's easy for you to say," he said, "you look like a person. A beautiful person, but still a person."

She laughed. "I don't look unique. You do."

"Unqiuely retarded."

She let out a gasp of faux-shock. "Don't say that, you're not retarded."

"That's not what 4chan says."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. "What _is _4chan?"

"Website," Lincoln said.

"I know _that,_" she replied, "I've heard of it. It's where hackers and white supremacists hang out."

Lincoln laughed so hard tears coursed down his cheeks. Maya favored him with a puzzled expression. Getting hold of himself, Lincoln said, "Some, I guess," he said.

He gave her a quick rundown of what 4chan was - image board where people bullied each other and looked at cartoon porn - and she frowned. "Oh."

"I don't go there much," he hastened to add. "Just when I know Lisa's on. I like to troll her."

By now they were outside Royal Woods, heading north on Route 29. Dense forest flanked the unbroken metal guardrails and the outlying bands of Elk Park flashed through the foliage ahead. He didn't know where they were going and he didn't ask. They couldn't be any more open in Elk Park than they could Royal Woods. Both were in the Royal County school district and both teemed with students and teachers from RCMS. "How do you know when she's on?"

"She visits three boards and avatarfags as a dialysis machine."

Maya's brow lowered. "That's a hateful word."

"What?" Lincoln asked, nonplussed.

"Fag."

"Oh, sorry. It's not meant to be. Or really used to be. It's a suffix anons attach to the end of a word to denote a person's likes or passions. Writers are writefags and you'd...I dunno...you'd probably be a teachfag."

She snorted. "That _is _amusing."

The road crested over a hill and Elk Park opened up below them, its streets and buildings following a lopsided asymmetrical grid pattern centered around a blue water tower. Across the valley, a factory perched on a grade belched thick black smoke into the air, and elsewhere, a freight train rushed along a set of tracks winding over a ridgeline. The road sloped sharply down, then bent gently into town. Neither spoke as Maya navigated the streets. When she put on the blinker and Lincoln saw their destination, he frowned.

McDonald's.

She pulled into the drive-thru and stopped behind a minivan. A little girl about eight hung out the window, her golden hair soaking in the rain, and in the rearview mirror, an old man's sour face begged for the sweet release of death...or his son or daughter taking their kid back, whichever came first. "What do you want?" Maya asked.

When she said _date, _he imagined somewhere less...fast foody. A dimly lit cafe with candlelit tables, soft chatter, and tables. He understood in an instant why they couldn't go to a place like that, and the back of his neck flushed hot with indignation.

The main reason he felt this way about having to hide was because it wasn't fair to Maya. He wanted them to be a normal couple and they couldn't because he was a kid. Mature maybe, but a kid regardless. He, not Maya, was the one holding them back. If he was a normal man, they could go to the movies, out to eat, and hold hands in public - things every couple take for granted - but since he was a doo-doo diaper baby, they couldn't.

Sigh.

"Big Mac, I guess."

The minivan pulled to the second window and Maya pulled to the speaker. "_Welcome...McDonald's...for you today?"_

"Can I have a number one and number four, please?"

"Okay, a number one and a number four. Is that all?"

"And two M&M McFlurries, please."

"10.50, second window."

Maya pulled ahead and waited for the minivan to move. Lincoln gazed out the rain streaked window and struggled against the sudden but powerful feelings of inferiority in his chest.

When they had the food, Maya parked in a space facing the street and handed him the bag. "Dinner is served, love," she said.

He took it with a thanks and stared down into it, uncharacteristically self-conscious. He'd had sex with this woman like five times and out of nowhere, he was as uncomfortable around her as he was in the beginning. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" she asked, bemused.

"For being a kid," he said, "for not being able to do regular stuff like going on real dates and being open with us."

Maya's lips pressed tightly together and she let out a sigh. "Lincoln, don't."

"I'm sorry, I just feel like I'm holding us back. You deserve better than McDonald's in the parking lot. McDonald's that _you _paid for."

"Lincoln," she said soberly. He looked up at her, and she flashed a wan smile. "I don't care about that. It doesn't matter to me if we go to fancy restaurants or if we eat Big Macs in the parking lot. I'm…" here her eyes flicked ashamedly to her lap. "I was married," she said, her voice somber. Whatever she was about to tell him, it wasn't going to be easy on her, and he gave her hand a comforting squeeze. Without looking up, she continued. "And...he beat me."

Lincoln's heart sank.

"He was abusive and controlling and...and I left him." The words came hard and visibly hurt, but something told him that she needed to speak them. "There's a lot more to it, but...it messed me up for a long time. I was scared of men and I was really unhappy." She looked up at him, and unshed tears glimmered in her eyes. Her smile, though pallid, was like the sun shining through leaden storm clouds. "Now I'm happy, and that's all I care about."

For a long, pregnant moment, Lincoln didn't respond as he tried to compute what she just told him. How could anyone do something like that to _her? _Just the vaguest, most roundabout thought made him both sick and angry. Tears welled in his eyes but he blinked them back. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly, "that...that that happened."

"So am I," she said, "but now I have you and the past doesn't matter anymore. I love you, Lincoln."

"I love you too."

She smiled then sat back in her seat. "Now let's eat, I'm starving."

Lincoln smiled, and the weight that had so recently been weighing on his shoulders lifted. He took his burger out of the bag and opened the cardboard carton. Maya plucked a fry out and crammed it into her mouth. Her lips puckered and she made a disgusted face. "Too much salt."

"That'll give you hypertension," Lincoln pointed out and took a bite of his burger. Secret sauce dribbled down his chin and he hurriedly wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Maya yanked out another fry and tossed it into her mouth. "So you pay attention in health class," she declared.

"Kind of," Lincoln said, "I just remember that from a movie. This guy said another guy needed to cut down his salt intake or he'd get hypertension." He paused and contemplated his burger as though all the mysteries of life could be found therein. "I'm not exactly sure what that is."

"High blood pressure," Maya said around a mouthful of fries. "My mother had it."

Rain splattered the windows and pinged on the hood. He didn't know how to reply to that. He knew Maya's mother died fairly young, but not what killed her. Asking _is hypertension what got your old lady? _didn't seem like a question he should ask, so he just let it go. "My dad's blood pressure is high."

"I bet both of your parents' are," Maya said, "with so many kids to take care of."

He laughed because that was true, come to think of it; Mom _did _mention the doctor saying her blood pressure was _elevated_. That's just polite for _high as a mofo_. "Actually, yeah," he said, "hers is high too."

"I imagine it's a lot of stress," she said.

Lincoln nodded solemnly. "It is. I'm never even entirely responsible and sometimes _I _want to rip my hair out. The other day, Lana tried to eat this moldy ass piece of month old pizza and I had to slap it out of her hand."

Maya laughed. "Wow. Really?"

"Yeah, she's grody," he said, "I swear, she won't live to see ten at this rate."

The mood lightened, and they continued chatting as they ate. When they were finished, they shoved their trash into the bag and started back to Royal Woods. The Elk Park athletic field was a marshy mess, and water overflowed the ditches on either side of Route 29. Lincoln stared out the window, tracking the flood as it crept across the blacktop. "Is it supposed to stop soon?" he asked.

"It's going to rain all night," Maya said, "we're under a flash flood warning until tomorrow at noon."

Oh.

Comforting.

On the border of Royal Woods, the river was dangerously high, the land around it swallowed by muddled brown water. The land angled down from the road, and the surge was held at bay...for now. Another foot, and it would cover the road.

Maya turned onto Franklin and slowed. His house was ahead on the left, hunkered darkly against the storm, cozy lights shining in the front windows. She pulled to the curb and kicked up a curtain of water that splashed the already sodden lawn. "Can you come over later?" she asked.

"I should be able to," he said. "Mom and Dad might not let me because of the rain."

A look of disappointment crossed her face, and that feeling of inferiority threatened to return. A real man, a _grown _man, wouldn't have this problem. "If not, I can duck out," he assured her, "there are fifty kids in there, they won't even know I'm gone."

She smiled and touched his face. "Don't get yourself in trouble," she said, "I just want to cuddle and watch a movie, that's all. It's not important."

Cuddling and watching a movie with his favorite woman sounded amazing, and nothing his parents could say would stop him from making it happen.. "Yes, it is," he said, "'cause I wanna cuddle and watch a movie too."

She bent forward and they kissed slowly, tongues stroking and hands drifting. He cupped her cheeks, then grazed his thumbs down the sides of her throat. His dick stirred and if he kept up, there was no way he'd be able to stop himself.

Breaking the kiss, he brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones. "I love you."

"I love you too, Lincoln," she replied.

Grabbing his backpack, he got out and leaned back in. "I'll text you."

"Okay," she said.

Slamming the door, he turned and hurried across the yard.

_I can't wait to marry her, _he thought.

And even though an errant wish like that may have given another boy pause, it didn't him.

Loving Maya was his purpose in life, after all.

And what a wonderful purpose it was.


	9. Ambush

**That Engineer: I do research where needed, usually with a quick Google search as I'm writing the scene where it's required.**

**Joni C69: I wrote two Loud House fics inspired by the Duggars: **_**11 Kids and Counting **_**and **_**11 Kids and Counting: The Lost Tapes**_**.**

**STR2D3PO: No, if anything it's a reference to _The Last Loud House on the Left._**

On her way home through the pouring rain, Maya DiMartino stopped at the supermarket on the corner of State and Hillsdale.

A long, low building with big windows along the front and an overhang above the breezeway, it had, per the town historical society, been standing since 1942. All of its fixtures, both interior and exterior, were original, and every time she shopped there, Maya imagined it was the forties or fifties. If they were out of a particular item, she pretended it was 1944 and things were being rationed for the war effort. _Maybe they'll have it next week, _she'd think and move on.

It was a silly and even childish game, but she enjoyed playing it with herself nonetheless. Today, she parked as close to the door as she could and hunched her shoulders against the rain for the dash to the door. The big drain in the middle of the parking lot was clogged with leaves and water spread out in a wide, lapping semicircle. She stepped up onto the curb like an acrobat and resisted the urge to throw her arms out like a playful girl.

Before Lincoln, she was grim and dour, dragging herself through life like a bitter double amputee, but now, some of the magic had come back and she felt good and giddy all the time. Aside from earlier in the car when she told Lincoln about him, she hadn't thought of Norman in days, or in what felt like days at least. Last week, she had nothing to look forward to except for abstract and nebulous maybes and one-days, but now she was genuinely excited to start each morning...and end each day, since tomorrow was only one sleep away.

Grabbing a cart from the carrol by the door, she went inside, a blast of warm air showering her from above and teasing her hair. A line of registers partitioned the front of the store from the back; there were only three open and a line snaking away from each. She shook her head and guided her cart to the produce section. This place was as bad as Wal-Mart, and more expensive too. In fact, the only thing it had going for it was small town charm.

Working slowly, she made her way from the vegetables to the frozen food section at the opposite side of the store with methodical deliberation. The burger and fries still sat heavy in her stomach, but she planned to make dinner anyway...provided Lincoln could come over.

Before Norman, cooking was one of her passions; she'd spend hours bustling in the kitchen, cutting, slicing, boiling, braising, baking, and combining wildly diverse ingredients just to see how they tasted together. Sometimes she invented sumptuous new dishes that she occasionally ate to this very day, and other times she sent herself running for the bathroom and praying she didn't spray puke on the carpet. In the beginning of her marriage to Norman, she delighted in sharing her culinary masterpieces with him...and her disasterpieces too. Before long, he started to complain when she ruined dinner...then he started to hit her. Her zeal for cooking drained away (as did her zeal for everything) until she did it with the numb, joyless detachment of an automatron. Since leaving him, she hadn't felt the desire to cook a big meal, but now, bubbling with light, airy happiness, she suddenly wanted to make _everything_.

That wasn't practical, so instead she settled on _albondigas, _a Mexican meatball soup that was perfect for cold, rainy days like today. It was also one of her favorites; she loved cuisine from every corner of the world, but she grew up on her mother's traditional Mexican recipes, and to this day they remained comfort food for her the way chicken soup and mac and cheese were for others.

In the produce section, she stocked up on tomatoes, green beans, peas, garlic, and fresh mint. You don't _have _to add mint to the meat, but to her, _albondigas _wasn't the same without it. She moved onto the coolers lining the back wall and picked out a package of ground beef. She pressed into the cellophane wrap with her finger in an attempt to ascertain whether the middle was pink, but couldn't tell.

She took it anyway.

Next she dropped a bag of rice into the cart. Italian meatballs are usually made with bread crumbs. Mexican meatballs, on the other hand, often use rice as the starchy component. She grabbed a few other things, then went through one of the checkout lanes. Outside, rain pounded the pavement, and the puddle in the middle of the parking lot looked much larger and deeper than it had before. She halted, still beneath the overhang, and favored it with trepidation. It was looking more and more like they'd reenact the Flood of 1928 after all.

Lowering her head, she crossed the parking lot and loaded the bags into the back seat. She deposited the cart in a flooded carroll, water soaking through her shoes and wetting her stockings, then returned to the car. She unlocked the door, slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine, pausing to turn on the heat and point the vents at her: Though she hadn't been in the rain for long, she was soaked to the bone and cold.

Backing up, she turned right and drove to the exit, where she waited for traffic before pulling out and starting home. She hoped Lincoln was able to get away for a little while, she really wanted to spend time with him, even if just an hour or so.

What he said earlier came back to her and she sighed. He said _I'm sorry we can't be open, _and though she dismissed it entirely out of hand, it _did _bother her. She didn't blame him for that, it was simple happenstance.

Or...the law.

Yeah, definitely that.

She turned off of Main and followed Ashmead Court past houses beginning to steep in premature twilight. A little girl in a pink poncho and galoshes kicked through puddles on the sidewalk and a German Shepard trotted proudly ahead, looking left and right for a place to relieve itself. He seemed not to notice the rain, and Maya turned to look at him as she passed. _He's so beautiful! _She considered getting a dog at one point but decided not to, maybe she should give it more thought.

At Jointer, she turned left and pulled into her driveway, the headlights washing over the front of the detached garage. She killed the engine, grabbed her purse from the passenger seat, and slung it over her shoulder. The first thing she was going to do when she got inside was take a hot shower, the second was text Lincoln. If he couldn't come, oh well, she'd make the _albondigas _some other time. She couldn't have him whenever she wanted, and she would just have to get used to it.

She could if she married him...but it was far too early to even think about _that_. Marriage, no matter what anyone said, is a huge commitment and should not be gone into lightly. After Norman, she didn't even know if she could ever again entrust herself to a man so fully, even Lincoln, but that was a worry for another day...when he was older. Right now she needed to get these groceries inside and warm up in the shower.

Getting out, she opened the back door, leaned in, and hefted the bags, three in each hand. She kicked the door closed and went around front, her arms quivering with strain. At the front door, she sat the bags down, got her keys out, and unlocked the handle. She pushed it open, picked the bags back up, and went inside, bumping the door shut with her butt. Gloom pooled in the living room and weakening daylight touched the windows like the fleeting fingertips of a phantom seeking entrance. She carried the bags into the kitchen, sat them on the counter, and snapped the overhead light on, harsh white glow stinging her dusk adjusted eyes. She shrugged out of her coat, draped it over the back of a chair, and started to turn, but froze when her gaze fell upon a muddy footprint on the floor.

It was far too large to be her own.

Three more lead around the fridge to the back door.

Someone spoke behind her, and an electric jolt of terror went through her. "Why?"

She spun, and Norman stood in the threshold to the living room, his broad shoulders dejectedly slumped. He wore rumpled tan slacks and a wrinkled polo shirt. His black hair, usually combed back, was messy, and a bristly 5'o'clock shadow covered his angular chin. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and bloodshot, as though he hadn't slept in days.

A fist of terror slammed into her heart and she staggered back a step, her lungs refusing to work and her bowels turning to ice water.

No.

This couldn't be happening...he couldn't be here. She was dreaming o-or hallucinating o-or something.

He took a step forward, and the soft scrape of his shoe against the floor shattered the illusion. Such a small, insignificant sound, but one that underscored the reality of the scene.

Norman was here...he found her just like he said he would.

Every muscle in her body petrified with fear and a cold, skeletal hand gripped her chest, squeezing her heart and lungs into bloody paste. At once, the past eight months fell away, and she was back in the kitchen of their shared apartment, trembling as he fell on her, teeth clenched, hand raised. Her knees went to jelly and she almost lost her balance but caught herself at the last moment. Norman, chin tucked to his chest, advanced with the inexorable deliberation of Death come to claim a soul and assured in the knowledge that he would get it. His eyes, once his most beautiful feature, were glazed over, and his lips flaked with dead skin. His unwashed scent pinched the back of her nose, and as he came closer, she noticed the stains on his shirt.

Swallowing, she found her voice. "N-Norman," she said, shaky, a woman confronting a rabid dog and doing her best to keep from panicking. "W-What are...w-what are doing here?"

A humorless smirk played at the corner of his lips and shuffled to a stop. "What are _you _doing here?" he asked. He darted his eyes around the room like a tourist in Times Square. "This isn't home."

Though she feared he would find her, she never truly believed he would, never thought she would have to face him again. He wasn't a man who could be reasoned with, she couldn't explain that she left him because in his mind, she belonged to him and always would. She, to Norman, was an object, little more than a piece of furniture or a plough horse. She lived to serve him, to cook, keep house, and open her legs whenever he wanted. There _was _no leaving him. She understood that a year into their marriage, and she understood it the night she sneaked out the front door with a single bag of her most cherished possessions.

He stared at her expectantly, head cocked and eyes wide, his smile patronizing. Her first instinct, honed by three years of constant whetting, was to roll over - give him whatever he wanted so he'd be happy. That was the old Maya, though, the sad, miserable prisoner who told the nurses and doctors she fell instead of telling them the truth, the one who kept her head and eyes down, dreading the abrupt and inevitable moment Norman's mood soured, the one who closed her tearful eyes and bore down on her bottom lip as he raped her repeatedly, sometimes for hours on end, the one who wished death upon him...then, eventually, upon herself.

Standing here now before Norman, memories battered Maya from every side, choking off her air supply and knotting her stomach. They blurred together in her mind to form a gray, flickering cacophony of light, sound, and sensation indivisible from itself.

The only thing she could remember in detail was the abiding hatred. Hatred of him, hatred of herself, hatred of life.

She couldn't go back to that even if the crazy glint in his eye cleared, even if she thought he would want her to.

Which she didn't.

"I...left you," she said. Her voice cracked, hardly a whisper, failing to match the conviction she felt in her breast. "This is my home now."

A deep, sinister shadow crossed Norman's face, and her heart crashed in the confines of her throat.

"No it's not," he said lowly, dangerously. His voice was no more even than hers. He took another step forward and she shrank back, bumping into the wall.

She was trapped.

Like an animal.

Panic burst in her and she jerked a frantic look around. The back door was to her left. Norman would be on top of her before she could get it open. He blocked the living room archway. To get through, she would have to go around him, and if she attempted that, he would grab her. Back to the plaster, chest heaving, skull throbbing with hysteria, she tried to think, but her mind careened headlong like a runaway train.

Norman's features screwed up in hate and his brows angled down, lending him a demonic appearance. "Your home is with _me_. Your _husband_."

His hands curled into fists and Maya winced. "Why did you do it? Why did you disobey me? I treated you good."

"No you didn't," she blurted, "you hurt me."

"FUCK YOU!" he roared. He sprang at her, and she let out a terrorized shriek. He snatched the front of her blouse and wrenched her body flush to his, fabric tearing with a crisp rip. His eyes blazed, his mouth sneered, his fetid breath puffing hotly against her face. Maya's heart came to a grinding halt and her eyes widened in horror. She was paralyzed like a woman faced with her greatest, soul withering fear; she couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't even blink...if it weren't for Norman holding her up, she would collapse to the floor like a suit of empty clothes.

His hand came up, palm open, and she had a split second to brace herself before it smashed across her face. Blinding white light exploded in her head and a whimper ripped from her throat. Her feet tangled and Norman shook her back and forth like a rag doll. "YOU'RE MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE!"

Without warning, he slammed her back against the wall once, twice, three times, then flung her to the side. Her heart leapt, and for a moment, she was falling in slow motion, then the world kicked back in and she hit the back door head first. Stinging agony enfolded her head, and a sharp scream dislodged from her throat.

Norman bent over, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her to her feet; tears welled in her eyes and a pained groan escaped her lips. She twisted left and right in a desperate bid to break his hold, but he held tighter, his face upside down, glaring, dark, evil, his hand falling again, arcing through the air, this time closed, a stone falling, falling. When it connected hard with her forehead, darkness claimed her, and clawing like a woman trying to save herself from drowning, she dropped into the depths.

Her body went limp and flopped to the floor. Panting, shoulders rising and falling, Derringer stood over her like a gorilla. His mind was gone, his reasoning broken, his intellect void. Maya lie at his feet in a fetal position, her eyelids fluttering rapidly like a dreamer in the throes of the REM cycle. He stared down at her, trying to process and make sense of what he was seeing. His brain felt sluggish, as though mired in mud, and thinking was hard.

Maya.

He finally had Maya.

Bending at the waist, he pressed his fingers to her neck. Her pulse was strong though irregular, like the heart of a rabbit hiding from a hawk. That analogy brought a fevered smile to his lips.

Still alive.

Still able…

...to suffer.

Snatching her hair like a caveman claiming his bride by brute force, he dragged her across the kitchen floor. One of her heels came off and lay on its side like a dead animal, and her hand trailed the linoleum, fingers twitching spasmodically as her injured brain sent frenetic and garbled commands to her extremities. She was heavier than she looked, and Norman's back twinged with the effort. That didn't matter, though, he finally got what he wanted, just like he always did. He let out a merry, demented laugh. "You thought you could leave me, but I'm the law, and my arm is loooooong." He giggled and intentionally twisted her wrist, his face a stark and confusing mixture of joy and rage.

He pulled her into the bedroom, wrapped his arms around her waist, and threw her onto the bed; the mattress bounced and the springs gave a weary creak. She lay flat on her back now, arms outstretched on either side as though inviting him to her bosom. His dick, hard throughout, ached insistently, and his breathing changed, taking on a ragged, needful quality. Her breasts rose and fell, tempting him to touch and bite them, and her throat bobbed, begging him to close his hands around it _sloooowly_.

Kicking out of his shoes, he crawled onto the bed and mounted her, his knees trapping her fragile frame between them. His dick jammed against her pubic mound and his unsteady hands pressed to her pert breasts. Her heart trembled beneath his palm, and her heat flowed into him, intoxicating his senses. Tilting over so that his face was scant inches above hers, he drew her scent into his nose; his eyes rolled back in his head and a hitching moan passed his dry lips. His hands drifted up and down, nails digging into her shirt and the skin below. His dick pulsed with need, but he didn't put it in her...not yet.

Instead, he skimmed his fingertips up the sides of her throat and along her jawline, her silky smooth flesh feeling better than he remembered. He darted his tongue out and swiped it across her cheek, the salty tang of her fear making the sweetest nectar. A shudder went through him and a muffled sound of delight trembled in the back of his throat. He couldn't explain why Maya was better than any other woman, couldn't even fully understand it himself, but he had come to accept it as immutable fact. Of the four billion women on earth, Maya was different, better.

She was also crueler.

He remembered the morning he woke to find her gone, the rage, the sorrow, the betrayal. She didn't even leave a letter, didn't even tell him _why_.

Oh, but he knew why. She wanted to fuck other men. Women are like sheep; they're soft and fluffy, but dumb and wander if you let them. They're emotional, flighty, and driven by false notions of love that makes them pathetically easy to dupe if only you put in a little effort. She was young and naive when they met, and stunningly beautiful...the most dangerous combination on the face of the earth. Other men would try to steal her, he just knew it, and because women have all the loyalty of cats in heat, she would put up no fight, but would _allow _herself to be sprinted away. At first, she may have been happy with just him, but soon, she'd want others, just like the common, cum thirsty cock whore she was.

And it came to pass, didn't it? He could see her unhappiness in their final months together, this infuriating hangdog expression you'd see on a bitch in heat as she gazes longingly out the window at the studly pitbull next door.

He should have foreseen her leaving him, but he didn't think she had the guts to do it. He imagined she would fuck someone while he was at work and hide it, but even that wasn't good enough for her. Oh, no. She had to have it on demand, any time her rotten little twat rumbled with hunger pangs, and he got in the way of that. How many did she fuck while they were still together? How many spic and nigger dicks did she take? How many dirty, venomous, subhuman loads?

Who did that baby he killed _really _belong to? It sure as shit wasn't him. When she told him, he was blinded by pride and happiness, but he sobered _real _quick. She cheated on him and SHE WAS LAUGHING! She expected him to raise another man's child like a fucking cuck. She thought he punched her stomach on a spur of the moment, but he planned it, dreamed of it, _masturbated _to it.

You'd think she would have learned not to fuck with him the day aborted her pregnancy, but women are even stupider than he thought.

His hands were around her throat now, tight, thumbs pressing against her larynx. His arms were too long, the distance between her and him too great, as though he were looking down on her from the top of a tall building. His brain cried out for him to stop, but he squeezed harder instead. After eight long, pent-up months, his vengeance was coming and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Giving into his urges, he bore down as hard as he could, his lips peeling back from his teeth. Maya's cheeks puffed out and her lips parted slightly. Her face turned light red, then deep scarlet as her oxygen supply cut off. Her eyelids twitched and a shiver wracked her body, her back arching and her middle thrusting into his rigid bulge.

Watching from afar, like a man before a TV screen, Derringer reached down with one hand and fumbled at the front of his pants.

A loud, high pitched ringing rent the silence, and he froze, his heckles instantly raising. It came again, twice in rapid succession.

The doorbell.

Derringer stayed where he was, his addled mind struggling to understand what was happening and why.

Someone wanted in…

One of Maya's lovers come to fuck what was rightfully his.

He hesitated, staring down at Maya's blue face and aching to finish the scummy bitch once and for all, then got up.

There was enough to go around, he decided.

He drew his Glock and crept into the hall on socked feet, his back pressed against the wall. At the end of the corridor, he leaned around the corner and squinted at the front door. There was no way to see who was out there, but he knew in his heart it was a nigger. Of all the ways she could add insult to the injury of leaving, she did it by having sex with blacks.

_DING-DONG, HERE TO FUCK YOUR WIFE._

Didn't he know she was married? Didn't he _care? _Of course not! Niggers are on the same level as women, self-centered creatures of concupiscence governed by their basest instincts. Derringer bared his teeth and tightened his grip on the gun.

_RIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG._

You want her so bad, you son of a bitch?

Come have her.

Breaking from cover, he stalked across the living room and threw the door open. A white haired boy about thirteen stood on the step. The haze of wrath descended over Derringer like a curtain, and he barely saw the kid's freckled face, barely heard the hiss of the cold November rain. The gun came up, and a quick look of shock flickered across his face.

Letting out a throat rending battle cry, Derringer brought the gun down hard, the handle striking the top of the kid's head with a hollow _thunk_. He went limp and toppled to the side, his head smacking the porch. Blood oozed from his scalp and convulsions tore through him.

Derringer bent, grabbed him by the back of his jacket, and pulled him over the threshold. He slammed the door behind him, locked it, and knelt down. The boy was unconscious and bleeding, lips mumbling as though he were trying to speak. Derringer cocked his head and regarded him with genuine curiosity. A boy, huh, Maya? You left me for a little fucking boy? The absurdity of it struck him like a fist to the funny bone, and throwing back his head, he cackled rich laughter. He, Norman J. Derringer, was a highly paid detective with ten years' experience, and one day, he was going to be captain of the homicide division...if not chief of the L.A.P.D.

And Maya left him for a child.

It all made sense to him now, all the longing looks Maya cast at the window when they were together, like a bird yearning to be free; all the preoccupied wool-gathering...all of it. She didn't want to fuck other men…

She was just a pedophile.

Huh.

When he first met her, she told him all about her love for children (and that was the exact phrase she used) with big, shimmery eyes. He thought she was a typical broad, but when she said _love_, brother, she fucking _meant _it. She said she wanted to help all the little kiddies grow and learn so she became a teacher, but she really did it so she could always have little boys on tap. He took her leaving as a personal repudiation - a rejection of him - but she only did it because her urges consumed her and she couldn't control herself any longer, and she knew he wouldn't let her molest children.

Fucking sick bitch.

Or maybe she wasn't...maybe she did this to spite him? Did he ever tell what his uncle did to him when he was a kid? He tried to remember but couldn't. Even if he didn't, she knew somehow, and this was her thumbing her nose at him, the ultimate insult, the salt rubbed deep in the wound.

How many kids had she abused? 50? 100? Did this boy come because she brainwashed him into thinking he liked being raped, or did she coerce him somehow? He could see her now, threatening to expel children if they didn't go down on her, dragging them into the janitor closet for bouts of molestation, laughing at him, always fucking laughing.

The boy muttered and stirred, and grabbing the front of his shirt, Derringer hit him with a swift punch to the temple; he went completely still, and Derringer let his head drop to the floor. It was too late for him, he was tainted and there was nothing Derringer could do to save him. The abused become abusers in turn, and the child before him was doomed to become a pedophile himself one day.

He recalled the feeling of his uncle penetrating him, and a shiver went down his spine. He didn't like thinking of that...and here was Maya doing the same thing.

No more.

Picking up the gun, he jammed the barrel to the underside of the boy's chin and cocked the hammer with an ominous metallic _click_. Had he ever killed a child before? He tried to remember, but the fog in his brain was too dense. He didn't think he had, which made this a special occasion. He should take a picture.

He threaded his finger through the trigger guard and applied pressure.

In the bedroom, something thumped, and he whipped his gaze toward the hall.

Maya.

Taking the gun away, Derringer got to his feet.

* * *

In the black, Maya drifted, without shape, without form, and without fear. She soared on dark tides, lonely as a cloud, and wandered the night like a wayward spirit on a restless flight. Time held no meaning - a thousand years passed in the twinkling of an eye, and a minute lasted an eternity. She knew nothing, saw nothing, and felt nothing save the weightless buoyancy of smoke.

Gradually, sounds began to penetrate the murky: A soft, distant hiss; a labored rattle; and, finally, a high, ghostly wail that ricocheted through her head like a bullet from the beyond. A great pressure lifted from her, and the scene began to lighten toward gray like the sky with the coming of dawn. The wail came again, and her brow furrowed. It wasn't a wail at all; it was a ring.

All at once, red, pulsing pain cleaved the void, and she sucked a reflexive gasp that expanded her chest. The pain flared, burning hotter and brighter, eating the world as a fire eats oxygen, and a moan welled from her throat. Her eyelids, hitherto gummed closed, pried open, and dazzling white light stung her aching orbs. She winced and tried to turn her head, and the agony in the center of her skull intensified; her stomach turned, and for a terrible moment, she was certain she was going to puke.

When the nausea passed, she pressed her hand to her flushed forehead and closed her eyes against the onslaught of light. What happened? The last thing she remembered was bringing the groceries in from the car, then...nothing.

Like a brisk slap, it all came back to her: The voice in the kitchen, Norman, dazed and disheveled, slamming her into the wall.

Her blood ran cold and her chest clutched so hard the breath left her lungs in a rush.

She sat bolt upright, her head splitting, and shot a harried look around the room. Dying opaque light fell through the window and shadows lurked in the corners, waiting for nightfall like vampires in an old movie, but Norman wasn't there.

Hyperventilating now, and mindless in her terror, she scooted to the edge of the bed and stood. Vertigo overcame her, and her rubbery legs gave out. Heart in throat, she shot out her hands and the last moment and broke the fall. A sob burst from her and she pushed herself up to her knees, trembling like a frightened dog. Wherever he was, he would be back soon, and he would hurt her just like he used to.

Wobbling from side to side, she held out her arms to steady herself. She started to get up, but froze when Norman came in from the hall, his features contorted, eyes raging with malice. Her heart skitted to a stop, and she tried to scurry back, but he caught her by the hair and pulled her to her feet. "You nasty fucking pedo bitch," he spat. His hand flashed up, and Maya cried out when it hit the side of her face. "YOU CHILD MOLESTER!" He hit her again, knocking her brain off kilter. Through her tears, his face was clenched, eyes crazed, teeth bared. A memory came back to her with the force of a gunshot: Him standing over her in the living room of the apartment wearing an expression much like this one. She hugged her aching stomach and wept desolately, already knowing that the child in her womb was dying, slowly fading from its father's blow.

_Shut the fuck up, _he hissed, _you'd be a shit mother anyway_.

Their baby would be almost a year old if it lived, a little boy or girl both beautiful and bright, just learning to toddle, eating finger foods, and lighting every day with its smile.

It didn't live, though. It died.

_Because of her._

Something happened to her then.

She got mad.

All of the pain, hatred, and claustrophobic dread bubbled up from her stomach like lava rising from the core of the earth, and her entire body caught fire. Her ears rang, blood crashed in her temples, and her chest swelled with righteous fury. She let this happen, she let him kill their unborn child, she sat there for three years and took his abuse, letting him get worse and worse and deluding herself into believing it was her fault, that somehow, she was to blame, that she deserved what was happening to her. She let him hurt her and their child and get away with it. If their baby lived, it wouldn't smile, it wouldn't play, it would stare traumatized into space because she would let Norman hurt it.

Deep inside of her, something snapped, and with a skull cracking scream, she raked her nails across Norman's face. Flesh tore, blood oozed. He let out a shocked yelp, and his grip loosened. She shoved him away and bolted for the door before she knew she was moving, her body taking command. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like fuel in a motor, and a sense of thrumming _power_ came over her.

Behind her, Norman bellowed his rage and threw his arms around her, yanking her back, her feet leaving the floor. Maya thrashed and kicked in his grasp, her heels battering his knees and her nails ripping at his forearms. Her hair hung in her face, obscuring her eyes, and a barbed, catlike shriek rent her throat. Norman, caught off guard by her newfound strength, tightened his hold, crushing her about the middle like a tin can. She flung her arms behind her and clawed madly at his face, the satisfying peel of flesh beneath her nails and thick, heavy blood on her fingertips urging her on.

Spinning around, Norman slammed her onto the bed and knelt, his hand going to her throat. Before it got there, she grabbed it, pulled herself up, and sank her teeth into the soft webbing between his thumb and forefinger. Coppery blood spurted into her mouth, and Norman howled pitiably, his head throwing back. She bit down harder, severing tendons, tearing sinew, her head shaking back and forth like a junkyard dog with its opponent's neck in its maw. He lashed blindly out and smashed his fist into her temple; stars exploded across her vision, but she was barely aware of the pain; all she knew was dumb, burning _hatred_.

Norman wrenched his hand away, long, cheesy ropes of skin stretching between his bones and her teeth, and Maya reacted; she brought her feet up, jammed them into his stomach, and heaved with everything she had in her, driving him back. He cried out and landed on his butt with a breathless _umph, _the rage gone from his face and replaced by confusion.

As if guided by some outside force, Maya jumped up, staggered, and fell against the door, then threw herself into the hall. Norman struggled to his feet, gushing blood from his ruined hand, and gave chase.

Mind numb, heart pumping, Maya ran, not knowing where she was going or what she was going to do, only needing to put distance between her and him. In the dining room, he caught her by the hair and whipped her around to face him; she screamed in a mixture of frustration and fear, and brought her fist around in a deadly arc, clocking him in the side of the face. Seemingly unfazed, he wrapped his hand around her neck and bent her back over the edge of the table. On reflex, she kneed him in the crotch, then plunged her thumb into his eye. He screeched like a dying cat and doubled over, his hands flying to his face. She pushed herself away from the table and stumbled into the kitchen, sobs that she heard but didn't recognize puffing from her blood stained lips. Her eyes fell on the drawer next to the sink, and she ran to it, pulled it open with shaky hands. A butcher knife with a brown wooden handle sat on top, and just as she picked it up, Norman hit her from behind like a speeding truck. The lip of the countertop pressed into her stomach and the air left her lungs, but she held onto the knife.

Norman wrapped his strong forearm around her neck in a deadly chokehold and squeezed. Maya drove her elbow back and hit him in the ribs, but he didn't let go. "Stop it," he hissed in her ear. His breath was hot and wet on her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

She didn't know she was going to speak until she heard the low growl of her own voice. "Get the fuck off of me!"

"Stop it. _Now." _

Instead, she kicked her heel into his shin and writhed in his grasp. She did it again. "Stop it -"

She slammed her head back into his nose with a wet crunch. His arm slipped just a little, but it was enough for her to break free. She turned, and time slowed to a trickle as she lifted the knife above her head. She watched from outside of herself, detached and dispassionate; watched the blade come down; watched Norman's eyes widen; watched the wickedly sharp point pierce his chest; watched the steel slide into him all the way to the hilt.

Norman's countenance, once handsome but now ugly with blood and madness, twisted in pain, and he stumbled back against the oven. His feet went out from under him as though the floor were made of ice, and he reached out to catch himself on the stove but missed and went down.

Lying on his side, the knife still jutting from his breast, Norman Derringer began to pale, his life draining rapidly out of him. Maya stood at the sink, transfixed and unable to move. Rich, red blood gushed around the handle and pooled on the linoleum, and in his dying panic, Norman pulled the knife out. It clattered to the floor and he drew a deep, gurgling breath. He turned his eyes up to her, and Maya saw something she had never seen in them before.

Fear.

He opened his mouth as if to say something and coughed up a spurt of blood. He laid his head on the floor like a reproved cat, and his eyes fell closed.

Maya stared at him in disbelief, then all at once, she collapsed and began to cry.


	10. Happy Ending

**Guest: Lol, he's a 14-year-old boy and Norman's a six foot tall, 250 pound cop. There's no way he's coming out on top. **

**Joni C69: The 'Cest Kids was based on the Turpins. I've never heard of the Colt family but thanks for the heads up, I'll look into them.**

**Anonymous789: It's a self-superiority thing, I think. I've known drunks who look down on pillheads, etc. Even the dregs of society need to feel as though they are better than someone.**

Maya DiMartino had never been as scared, nervous, and happy as she was today. It was a strange and powerful mix of conflicting emotions that had kept her awake most of the night and even now coursed through her like electricity. She'd been up since just before dawn, unable to sleep, and had paced the entire house a dozen times. She didn't know how many miles that was, but it had to be a couple at least.

In early December, after Mr. Kemper retired due to cancer, the school board offered her a full time position at Royal Woods Middle teaching history. The pay was better, the hours consistent, and she was teaching her favorite subject. Today, December 15, was her first as an official member of the faculty, and she couldn't help walking through the halls with her head held high. The bruises from Norman's attack had faded but hadn't gone entirely - purple knuckle marks splotched the right side of her face, and by now, if you didn't know what they were, you'd most likely mistake them for dirt. Years ago, she would have carefully hidden them with make-up, too ashamed to meet her own eyes in the mirror, but now she wore them as a badge of pride. They were proof positive that she was no longer the frightened mouse she once was, and looking at them brought her a deep sense of satisfaction.

Everyone she knew said she was _different_, and that pleased her to no end. She _was _different: Her zeal for life, stomped out of her so long ago, had returned, and with it her bright-eyed optimism. She had a job she loved, a man she loved, and for the first time in what felt like forever, things were truly looking up.

It wasn't perfect, though.

There was Elena.

Fifteen years ago, Maya lost her mother, and while it hurt, it didn't match what she felt for Elena. Happy though she was, she sometimes sat up in bed and paged through the photo album she kept on the nightstand and wept bitterly. Losing her sister - her rock and her protector - was like being eviscerated and knowing that it was her fault made it even worse. She knew very little about what actually happened to her big sister, and she begged God she never found out anything more. She didn't even read the papers or watch the news in the following weeks; she knew Norman killed a dozen women, maybe more, and that was too much knowledge if you asked her.

She didn't allow herself to indulge in her grief because Elena wouldn't have wanted that. She would have told her: _Grow a set of ovaries and get over it. _Remembering that oft-repeated admonishment always brought a smile to her face and a tear to her eye. She didn't indulge, but she really wished Elena was here.

That would make everything so much better.

She couldn't be too broken up...not with Lincoln around. Lincoln came through with a lacerated scalp and a disjointed memory of being hit and _possibly _molested (his words). After finding him sprawled on the living room floor, she frantically called 911, dreadfully certain he was going to die. Just before the ambulance arrived, he came awake, and Maya smothered his face with kisses. He told the police he was walking to his friend Clyde's house when he heard screaming. _I knew Ms. DiMartino lived there and I thought she needed help_. She worried that they would be suspicious and dig deeper, but in all the excitement, no one cared. Royal Woods wasn't a thrilling place by any stretch, and a man trying to kill his ex wife, then turning out to be a serial killer from the big city, was huge news.

Part of her was glad Norman was dead. She could live free now, and never have to worry or look over her shoulder ever again. Killing him was, she liked to think, almost a crude metaphor for her facing - and slaying - her demons.

Another part wished he survived so he could spend the rest of his rotten life in prison. You know what they do to former cops in prison? They make their lives a living hell, and that's what Norman deserved, someone beating him and terrorizing him the way he beat and terrorized her and all those other women.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that he was in hell.

Where he belonged.

Presently, she sat at her desk grading papers. It was the last period of the day and she didn't have a class, so the room stood empty, crisp winter sunlight falling through the window and painting the abandoned desks with golden hues. Dust motes swirled in the rays like snow, and total peace lay upon her like a warm blanket. She slipped the top sheet off the stack, laid it face down on the others she had completed, and drew a contented breath through her nose. Thoughts of Norman, her newfound strength, and even Elena were far away. There was something _else _on her mind, and she anxiously chewed her bottom lip. She knew what she wanted from life, and she would have it regardless of anything - or anyone. She wasted too many years suffering under Norman's thumb to worry over anything else. Life is short, live while you can. She would forge her own way forward, with or without Lincoln Loud, but she would be a liar if she said she didn't really, really, _really _hope it was _with_.

The bell rang, and almost at once, the hall was packed with kids streaming past, their talking and laughter drifting through the open door. Maya finished the current paper and went onto the next one. The name LINCOLN stared up at her from the top, the 'I' dotted with a heart. She smiled and scanned his answers. She found one wrong, considered letting it slide, then decided not to. She picked up her red pen and wrote in the margins. _The Wright Brothers made their historic flight in 1903, Lincoln, not 1901. _

After finishing the last couple papers, she put them in a folder and shoved it into her desk. She got up, slung her purse over her shoulder, and took one last look around the room, smiling hazily to herself. _Mine, _she thought.

Turning away, she snapped out the light and went into the hall. She made her way to the side door much like a salmon swimming upstream, then out into the warm afternoon light. She crossed the parking lot, dug her keys out of her purse, and unlocked the car. Getting in, she tossed the purse on the passenger seat, buckled her safety belt, and turned the key in the ignition.

She met Lincoln three blocks away. He stood on a suburban corner looking lost, and her heart filled with love. All traces of doubt had been wiped away; she loved Lincoln and she didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.

Her stomach twisted with nerves, and her smile faltered a little. With Norman, she was self-deluded right up to the very end. Now, she was older and wiser. She loved Lincoln, yes, but there were other things more important than love. She made the mistake of not letting Norman go, but if she were forced, she wouldn't make it again.

Lincoln saw her, came over, and opened the door. "Hey," she smiled. She picked her purse up and carefully tossed it in the back.

"Hey," Lincoln said and climbed in.

They shared a quick kiss, then Maya pulled away from the curb. "How was your day?" she asked, like she always did.

"Alright," he said noncommittally, "banged my shin in gym."

Maya's brow knitted with concern. "Aw, you okay?"

"Yeah," he said and took her hand, "I'm strong and brave, remember?"

She laughed. "Yes you are. And really attractive too."

At her house, Lincoln sat on the couch while she went into the bathroom and fetched something. She caught a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her reflection was uneasy...but resolved, and that resolution heartened her.

Taking a deep breath, she went into the living room. Lincoln perched on the edge of the sofa, his forearms resting on his knees. On TV, President Trump waved his middle finger at the press while next to him, Vice President face palmed and shook his head.

Maya sat next to Lincoln and turned to face him. "I got you something," she said . "It's...an early Christmas present." She wavered as she spoke, not sure how he would take the news. Well, she hoped, but if he didn't, life would go on.

Uncertainty flickered across his face. "Oh, already? I didn't get your gift yet…"

"Yes, you did," she said with a nod.

Now he looked confused.

She held out her hand, and Lincoln's eyes went to it, his brow furrowing deeply. Guess he's never seen one of these. Surprising, with as many siblings as he has. "What's that?" he asked.

"A pregnancy test," she said, unable to contain her beam any longer, "and it's positive."

He stared dumbly for a moment, then understanding dawned in his eyes and his jaw fell slack in a perfect O of astonishment.

"I know this is a big responsibility," she said, speaking from the heart, "and I understand if you don't want it. But I do." She swallowed thickly and continued. "I've wanted a baby for a very long time, and when I was married to Norman, I was pregnant b-but lost it." Even now, after all that had happened, talking about it out loud hurt, like something barbed and sharp being ripped from her chest. She couldn't bring herself to tell him exactly what happened. One day, if he wanted to hear it, but not now. And if he _didnt _want to hear it, she was content keeping it to herself. That way, she could pretend it never happened.

Lincoln closed his mouth and blinked rapidly like a boy coming awake from a great shock. "You're still a child yourself and if you can't handle it right now, I won't hold it against you. You can leave me, you can never look at me again, and that's fine. It will hurt more than anything, but I'll accept it and I won't bother you. I want you to be in our child's life and I want you to be in mine, but I won't force you. Either way, _I'm_ having our baby."

A sheen of tears stood in Lincoln's eyes, and his lips quivered as though he were going to break down. He took her hand and slipped his fingers through hers, and in that moment, she knew.

"I'm not going anywhere," he vowed solemnly.

And though many men do not stay true to their word, Lincoln Loud did.

Forever.


End file.
